


The Impossibilities Chronicles-Book Three

by hallowgirl



Series: The Impossibilities Chronicles [3]
Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Cross-Party Relationship, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, hot tubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 495,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: He shouldn't be.Heshouldn'tbe.But-"You thaid it'th political" he says softly.
Relationships: David Cameron/Ed Miliband
Series: The Impossibilities Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657903
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18





	1. Attraction Analysis, Surreptitious Saunas And Diversion From Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which a sauna is the best place for private discussions, driving a train is always worth celebrating and First Aid is not always an unfortunate side effect of having your rival as a guest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started off as one really long piece of fic, which loads of you were commenting on and reading, but I realised it was going to get to a ridiculous length so would work much better as a series.  
> First: yes, this is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> Second: yes, I include a lot of references at the end of each chapter. This is because people were asking for real-life references for the real-life events acting as aforementioned backdrop. It is also partly because I want to make it clear that all information used for this fic is public and that no private information whatsoever is being used. Also, I quite like it. You don't have to read them to enjoy the story, but they provide a bit of background colour and info about some of the references made. If you can't read any of the articles for whatever reason, just send me a message on Tumblr and I'll find a way for you to. :)  
> Third: yes, I also include a lot of quote references from politics books (at the start of each chapter, before the epigraphs). This is for much the same reason as the factual references at the end. Again, feel free to skip them and go straight to the main story, though they're there to add a bit of background info and colour if you find them interesting. I'll put a little comment in the notes at the start, letting you know what's in the quotes, so you can skip if you want. One of the main reasons for the amount is to try to highlight different points of view so I don't get accused of just obviously only using books favourable to one side.  
> Fourth: I'll try to add Trigger Warnings (TW) if there's anything I consider to be triggering in the chapter or references. If I miss anything, apologies, and let me know if you think something needs a TW.  
> Fifth: do not get into arguments about politics here. This is fanfic. It's not intended to be a genuine depiction of or a moral treatise on politics or which side you should take. When I started this fic years ago, it was because I idly noticed that politics seemed to be getting pretty bitter and divided and thought it would kind of be interesting to see if those divides could be crossed. Years later, that opinion of politics being pretty bitter and divided hasn't exactly been disproved. This is not intended to be any kind of political sermon.I like to think that nobody is perfect and very few people are genuinely completely evil. Everyone is the hero of their own story, which is the approach I take writing this. And at the time of this being posted-in the middle of the Covid-19 outbreak, for those of you in the future-it's a time when most people are just doing their best and trying to get through life.  
> Sixth: if you want to ask me anything about this fic, let me know what you like about it, or just chat, you can find me on my Tumblr .  
> Seventh: thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed, sent asks, etc. about the original fic,, especially those who chat with me on Tumblr about it. I hope you'll all keep following it now it's in series format, even though you'll have already read these chapters if you're a longtime reader, and feel free to leave comments, kudos, etc., here too (I'm not going to take down the original fic bc I want to keep all comments & kudos.)  
> Eighth: Leave a comment if you like it. Enjoy reading it. Remember it's all fiction. Stay well (in case you're reading this in the future, this was posted in the middle of the COVID-19 epidemic and worldwide lockdowns.) And have fun reading. :)  
> The quote references in this chapter refer to the fallout over Baldwin's Milly Dowler comments, Ed's school, and George's education.  
> TW: this chapter does contain references to a high-profile murder case in the UK that are relevant to the story.

_But if they had ever kissed you_

_There are so many they wouldn't dare._

_first kisses in the movies._

_ -A Softer World, Emily Horne and Joey Comeau _

* * *

_That evening, The Guardian began reporting allegations that the News of the World had hacked into voicemails left on the phone of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler in 2002-a period during which News International chief executive Rebekah Brooks, a close friend and confidante of the Prime Minister David Cameron, as well as a friend of Ed's two Labour predecessors, had been editor of the Sunday tabloid. When the story broke, Ed was in his office, in the middle of a meeting with Ed Balls. It was Balls who first received the news-via text-and the shadow Chancellor began reading aloud some of the astonishing and shocking claims made by The Guardian's reporting team of Nick Davies and Amelia Hill. Like millions of ordinary people up and down the country, Ed was disgusted by the details revealed in the newspaper. **"He was genuinely taken aback"** says an ally of the Labour leader. Two months earlier, in an interview with The Guardian, Ed had become the first party leader to demand an independent review of newspaper regulation and practices. Now, he began calling and texting his closest friends and allies to discuss how best to respond to these new developments. Remember: only six months before this, in January 2011, Ed's director of strategy, Tom Baldwin, a former Times/News International employee, had sent an email to Labour frontbenchers instructing them to avoid connecting Rupert Murdoch's proposed takeover of BSkyB to the phone hacking scandal. **"These issues should not be linked"** he had written. But on the evening the Dowler story hit the headlines, it was Baldwin who told Ed that he had to be decisive. **"Now this has happened, you've got to go for (News International)"** he told his boss. **"It's crossed the Rubicon and it goes to the character of the company."**...In the early hours of the morning, as Ed headed for bed having watched the nightly news bulletins and then engaged in a series of back-to-back phone conversations with aides and shadow ministers, he decided that he did indeed have to **"go for"** News International. Even without Baldwin's urging, it was his own gut instinct. He had never personally been comfortable with the Labour Party's ties to the Murdoch clan, nor did he believe that massive media conglomerates should wield such excessive and unaccountable power and influence. This was, in his mind, the perfect opportunity to show the world what he stood for-and to do what Tony Blair and one-time mentor Gordon Brown had failed to do: take on Rupert Murdoch. **"I knew it would never be the same again"** says Ed. **"I definitely had that sense. I don't think I knew quite how different it would be but I think I knew it was a big, big deal." "4 July"** recalls an aide to Ed, **"was our independence day. From Murdoch."-** Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_The next morning Ed met with members of the Dowler family, who urged him to be **"fearless"** and to **"stand up to the press."....** One former Blairite Cabinet minister who backed David in the leadership election recalls: **"It was one of those "wow" moments. You thought: "Goodness, no one has tried to do this before." It was bold."** Blair himself had drawn applause from an audience at the New Labour think tank Progress on 8 July when he declared: **"Ed Miliband has shown real leadership this week."** But would Blair have done what Ed did? **"No"** says the former Cabinet minister. **"Tony, dearly as I love him, is 51 per cent social democrat and 49 per cent neo-conservative. So would Tony have wanted to take on Murdoch, who is the high priest of neo-conservatism? No."** Unlike both Blair and Brown, Ed had long believed that one of the biggest obstacles to progressive politics in Britain was a corporate-owned, centre-right media. Ed had hoped that Brown would make the break with Murdoch, but he was disappointed. Ed wanted to tackle the dominance of the Murdoch-owned press himself-as he acknowledged in an interview during the Labour leadership in August 2010-but believed it could only be done from a position of political strength, in government, rather than one of relative weakness, in opposition. However, the phone-hacking scandal changed everything. Baldwin's January memo, which had warned against **"anything which appears to be attacking a particular newspaper group out of spite"** , was a distant memory. Prior to the summer of 2011, says a close friend of Ed: **"(Ed) had in his head a critique of the power elite; a kind of story in his head that the reason why Britain was going wrong was that decisions were being made by a small group of people, in their own interests, rather than the public interest. It sounded so abstract, so academic, but when the hacking stuff emerged, it became so immediate, so political. Ed thought to himself, "I can do this because I understand what this is all about.""** For the Labour leader, "Hackgate" was not a media scandal; it was a political and economic scandal that went to the heart of how the country was (mis)ruled. Or, as he put it in a speech to the KPMG a fortnight after the Milly Dowler story broke: **"In the space of just a few years, we have seen three major crises in British public life among people and institutions that wield massive power. First the banks. Then MPs' expenses. And now in our press....All are about the irresponsibility of the powerful."...**_

_It is worth noting that on the evening of Saturday 2 July (2011), less than forty-eight hours before the Dowler story broke, David Miliband and Douglas Alexander were among the guests at a party held by Rupert Murdoch's daughter Elisabeth at her 22-bedroom mansion in Oxfordshire. Despite having conducted a rather deferential interview with The Sun in April 2011 **("I want to show to Sun readers that I get it about the concerns they have"** he said, as he stood to be photographed with the paper in his hands), and despite having attended Rupert Murdoch's summer party in Kensington in June 2011, where he failed to raise the hacking scandal in a conversation with his host, Ed, on the other hand, tended not to move in such circles. (He would later admit that he **"clearly should have said more earlier"** about phone hacking, according to Murdoch himself in June.)...His success in harrying the government, setting the agenda and forcing the resignation of Brooks and the withdrawal of the BSkyB bid was a huge boost to his confidence and helped him, in the words of numerous commentators, to **"find his voice."** It also convinced the Labour leader that making bold decisions, taking big risks and trusting his instincts could pay off for him-that he was best, to borrow a line from Gordon Brown, when he was boldest. As he would later remark in his conference speech: **"The lesson I have learnt about this job and myself over the last twelve months (is) to be true to myself. My instincts. My values. To take risks in the pursuit of that. And to stand up for what is right."** And, as he observed a few months later, his break from Labour's dysfunctional relationship with Murdoch, the fact that he has survived as leader despite it and may even win the next election, was **"a real lesson."** The change in his demeanour was immediate and obvious. **"There's undoubtedly something different about Ed Miliband now: more swagger, more conviction"** wrote James Forsyth, political editor of the Tory-supporting Spectator, after interviewing him in the week of the Commons vote. **"There is a new confidence, as Mr Miliband strides across his office, hand outstretched, to greet us"** noted The Times's (Rachel) Sylvester and (Alice) Thomson. **"He seems a different person from when we last met him five months ago."** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Lunch with Tom Baldwin to discuss a pre-election soft-focus feature we want to make with Ed Miliband. Dealing with the other party leaders has been a doddle in comparison. Farage wants us to come with him on a day trip to First World War battle sites, while Cameron has invited us to film him making the family Sunday lunch. The Labour spin doctor is, understandably, still buzzing after PMQs. This moment, he tells me, is like the moment when the story broke about the hacking of the murdered teenager Milly Dowler's phone. What he means is that they are both balance-tipping moments, the point where an issue that hasn't previously excited most people-in one case phone-hacking within the Murdoch empire, in the other, tax avoidance-suddenly galvanizes the public.This is a moment when Ed can show he's doing **"the right thing"** and standing up to the rich and powerful....My WDIAM **"What Does It All Mean?"** focuses on why Miliband is pursuing tax avoidance so aggressively. Remembering my lunchtime conversation with Tom, I write that Ed's advisers see it as a **"Milly Dowler moment".**...I may have thought no more about that Milly Dowler moment but others on Twitter certainly have. The Tory press, nudged by Tory HQ, are suggesting that this was an outrageous misuse of the memory of a murdered schoolgirl. It was, of course, nothing of the sort. At worst it was a slightly clumsy and insensitive shorthand._

_Tom Baldwin texts in something of a panic. He and Ed are heading to Ed's old school to launch Labour's education policies. They're happy for this to be overshadowed by questions about yesterday's row on tax avoidance. Indeed, they're positively encouraging it. Ed is planning to take up Lord Fink's challenge by repeating what he said in the Commons. What they really don't want questions about, though, is whether they see this as a **"Milly Dowler moment".**_

_Tom wants me to **"clear things up."** In other words, he wants me to say that no Labour figure-and particularly not him-used the phrase. This is awkward as I'm certain he did say it.-"Wednesday 11th February 2015-Thursday 12th February 2015"-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_**Haverstock School** _

_When I arrive for the speech the scale of the problem becomes clear. Virtually every hack there asks me who it was who said **"Milly Dowler moment."** I have absolutely no desire to be involved in a media witch-hunt about the language people use or a repeat of the **"weaponizing"** saga. So I tell them, and I tweet, that neither my blog nor my radio report contained a direct quotation. This has the benefit of being both true and ambiguous, as it leaves open the matter of whether the phrase was ever uttered. Time to move on to the substance. Could we? Please? As soon as I do so, a much better story is dropped at our feet. Lord Fink has performed a spectacular and humiliating U-turn in an interview for the Evening Standard. Not only has he told them he doesn't want to sue the Labour leader, he has also admitted to tax avoidance, albeit of the "vanilla" variety. Game, set and match to Ed, who duly repeats his calls on the PM to explain how he'll deal with this. Nowhere in his speech, though, does he repeat the word **"dodgy."** I ask him whether he is now saying that Fink is not dodgy. To my amazement, he replies that indeed he is accusing him of no such thing. He appears to read his words as if they've been dictated by lawyers. So, two U-turns-the first and biggest by Fink, but Ed has made one, too._

_My question is heard in stony silence by the invited audience of party supporters and teachers. As every other journalist asks about the same subject they are booed and heckled. Why, the audience wants to know, aren't you asking about education? The blunt response is because it's not as newsworthy. A blunter one is that we'll ask what we like, thank you very much. The real answer is that the spin doctors-in all parties-should abandon these hybrid party rallies-news conferences. They annoy everyone who goes to them.-"Thursday 12th February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_In the late 1990s, Ed was working in the Treasury; David (Miliband) was working in Number 10, as head of the Prime Minister's Policy Unit (until he left Downing Street to stand for Parliament in South Shields in 2001.)_

_In their respective roles in the Treasury and Number 10, they had little direct interaction. But Ed did, literally, live on top of David, in a house in Chalcot Square, in Primrose Hill, that their mother had originally bought for their late grandmother in 1981. David turned the ground and first-floor flats into one home while Ed moved into the second floor flat and reportedly acquired the leasehold for around £100,000. Friends remember the doors always being open between the two flats-with Ed bounding down the stairs to chat to David and, after they married in 1998, David's wife Louise. A fellow member of the Brown team remembers faxing messages intended for Ed to David's fax machine, as Ed didn't own one. She would then ring Ed to tell him she had sent the fax and he would go down and collect it from David. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Haverstock School is situated in the heart of Camden, one of the most exclusive areas in London. A five-minute walk from Camden Market and the Roundhouse theatre, the comprehensive is also a stone's throw from Primrose Hill, the highly desirable-and beautiful-north London area where the Milibands grew up and went to primary school. Yet like all pockets of the capital, the London Borough of Camden is mixed, with a startling combination of rich and poor living side by side. Though Haverstock School now has the highest Ofsted rating of any state school in the borough, only 38 per cent of its 1,250 pupils gain as many as five GCSEs with a grade C or above. And despite a £21 million refurbishment in 2006 when, under Labour, Haverstock became the first state school to benefit from the private finance initiative (PFI), the current headmaster, John Dowd, admits it is **"struggling to attract middle-class"** parents and pupils. The former cramped Victorian buildings have been replaced with modern glass blocks, but the school remains unchanged in its cross-section of pupils from very different social and ethnic backgrounds. In addition to David and Ed Miliband, its alumni include the footballers John Barnes and Joe Cole, the former Labour MP Oona King, the journalist and author Zoe Heller, and most recently the pop stars Fazer and Dappy from N-Dubz. Nikki Haydon, who was head of English when the Milibands attended the school in the late 1970s and early 1980s, recalls that Haverstock had a large and distinct **"middle-class contingency"** -far more so than today-including the children of people working in the media and politics. Haydon, who still works at Haverstock, also confirms that the school was even more multicultural then than it is now. Ed often recalls this diversity with affection, even suggesting that it helped him develop his ability to connect with people of different cultures and persuasions. **"Haverstock was a school with more than sixty nationalities and people from all classes and backgrounds"** he has said. **"It gave me a fantastic education-not just in how to pass exams but also how to mix and make friends with people from all walks of life."** He has also applauded the quality of its teaching, saying: **"I was fortunate to be taught by some inspiring teachers, including in subjects where I was not naturally gifted: how else to explain being able to pass A-level physics, which I certainly wouldn't be able to do now?"** _

_Oona King, the former Labour MP, was in a class two years below David and two years above Ed. She agrees that Ed's ability to communicate with people owes much to Haverstock: **"If you were middle class, you had to learn pretty quickly how to be at ease with a wide range of people, because you wouldn't last very long otherwise."** As Heller, a contemporary of David Miliband, has said: **"People who have been through the system know a bit more about the society they live in than those who have not."...** Vivian Jacobs, who taught a number of subjects at the school when the Milibands were there, remembers them as **"lovely boys, great boys"** and was aware of who their father was. Just as it struck their teachers at the time that the boys stood out as special, so it struck those who knew them later in life that they had been **"very well brought up by their parents",** in the words of Andrew Turnbull, former head of the civil service and Cabinet Secretary between 2002 and 2006. But were differences between the two brothers apparent even then? At least one teacher has commented that Ed was **"more outgoing."** Both, however, appear to have been considered **"geeks."** Oscar Gregan, who taught mathematics at Haverstock, has said: **"When I joined in 1979 I remember meeting this tiny little kid called David. I heard his surname and I wondered if he had anything to do with the famous Ralph Miliband. I had met Ralph and his wife....and realised I was teaching their sons. David was not a natural, geeky mathematician-Ed was more like that-but he was a lively, active student who developed a good mastery of maths. He was articulate and had a strong presence. He showed brilliant attention to detail, and a great sense of tenacity."** Haydon has joked about one claim put about by friends of Zoe Heller. **"I wasn't the teacher who wrote on one of David's essays, "Very good, but if you want to see how it should be done, take a look at Zoe's""** she has said. **"I remember them as really nice kids...I guess David was the more bookish and Ed the more outgoing."** Others also remember David as the more studious of the two, and Jacobs, who kept in touch with him, recalls visiting David at Corpus Christi a few years later and finding him hard at work in his **"freezing cold"** room with the window wide open and papers everywhere. The age gap-of four and a half years-meant that the two brothers, as children and teenagers, did not spend much time together at school or at home. **"I definitely looked up to him"** says Ed now, **"but he had different friends from me."** Though Ed admits to not thriving at physical education, he had already developed a strong interest in sport. Ed recalls arguing with his father over whether or not he could watch the snooker final rather than do his art homework, and remembers going to watch Geoff Boycott play in his last innings at the Lords after completing his final O-level exams. At home, Ed loved playing computer games, like Manic Miner, on his ZX81 home computer, when he was not studying.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_According to Rik Henderson , a fellow student: **"Ed used to hang around with a group of kids who were not the hardest kids but not the softest either. He used to make people laugh and kept out of trouble. He was sensible and while everyone was messing about at the back of class he used to sit at the front and listen to the teacher."** Another contemporary, Andy Adebowale, has said: **"Ed used to hang around with the geek crowd."** But he added: **"I remember David was not meek. He was quite a strong personality and Ed was the same. They could use their language skills as a shield against the bullies. It was the kids who were isolated who got bullied."** Says King: **"You needed a strong personality to thrive. I got beaten up by one girl for not saying "Please". That's what the playground was like: fight, fight, fight."** King says she **"laughs almost hysterically"** when she hears the school being dubbed **"Labour's Eton",** as it has been in the press. She describes it as a **"rough"** school, emphasising that a large proportion of the children were from deprived backgrounds or broken homes, and revealing that one of her contemporaries was later jailed for murder. _

_Whether the school can really be labelled **"rough"** by the standards of London state schools, however, is debatable and contested by those who worked there. Ed Miliband himself has described it as **"tough"** and has admitted to the occasional fight in the playground. One was described by a contemporary of Ed called Kevin Mustafa who, in a colourful account in the Mail On Sunday in February 2011, claimed that the future Labour leader had called him a **"Turkish bastard."** He has said that, **"School was about looking after yourself despite being weedy. You would have to take care not to get beaten up in the classroom."** In the same Mail On Sunday report, contemporaries of Ed backed the idea of Haverstock as a tough school. Socratis Socratous, who studied A-level maths with Ed in the sixth form, said: " **Everybody would have been hit at school at some point. I used to have to walk around with my dinner money in my socks."** But he added: **"Both Ed and David were genuinely really good guys and were ultra-intelligent. If it were not for Ed I would not have passed my maths A-level. The teacher was crap. Ed used to give me his homework. From copying his homework I learned the process and passed my exams."** Ed himself remembers enjoying maths, and still speaks highly of his maths teacher at the time, Steve Carlsson.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Haydon insists that while there was some feuding between local comprehensive schools, Haverstock was relatively tame. **"We have always been concerned about making sure the students are safe. I would never say the school was an unsafe place. I wouldn't say it was ever any worse than other local schools."** She adds that, for middle-class parents in Islington, Haverstock was **"certainly the school that parents wanted to send their kids to."** And-crucially-it was the school and not just the middle-class nature of pupils like the Miliband boys that aided their subsequent aspirations. **"We had some amazing teachers"** says King. **"And the school definitely contributed to our success."** As King explains, there were important lessons to be drawn over the decisively mixed make-up of the school. **"There were a lot of people from extremely deprived backgrounds that were at Haverstock. And I think to an extent it affected all of us who went there, the same in some ways for those of us who were on the left, we got to know these kids pretty well and it was clear those who were very intelligent. But no matter how intelligent they were, they didn't have a prayer of getting further than Budgens checkout."** Indeed, King goes even further, crediting the school with creating MPs out of herself, and Ed Miliband. **"I think Ed could see that Haverstock had virtues and he will probably know, like me, that the only reason we could become MPs and represent the constituencies that we, in my case did and in his case does, is because we went to Haverstock. I couldn't possibly have known how to interact with white, working class East-enders from Bethnal Green if I hadn't gone to Haverstock. There's just no way I could've done that and I know that Ed recognises that having gone to Haverstock gave us the necessary life skills along with an adequate level of academic achievement."**_

_The current headmaster, Dowd, says that aspiration is crucial to Haverstock's ethos. **"The key message we want to get across to our students is that they can achieve"** he has said. **"Nothing need be out of reach if you are prepared to work hard. And yes, it is harder to persuade pupils they can make a career in politics in a school where there are fewer middle-class children with parents encouraging them in that direction. But it is possible. One of our recent old boys is now a paid worker for the Labour Party in the south west. What makes all the difference is people such as Ed, David and Oona coming back here to engage with the students and to show them politics does make a difference."** Overall, Ed was clearly at ease in the school, albeit happiest among the **"middle-class contingent."** He may have been bullied, as he confessed to a Treasury colleague two decades later, but he certainly did not retreat into introspection.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Privately, Ed had little sympathy for Blairism and New Labour's reverence for markets. He felt he was still a man of the centre-left and that he had to retain a healthy scepticism for the private-sector, not-state solutions so beloved of Blair and his acolytes. From foundation hospitals to city academies to tuition fees, Ed, like his boss, the Chancellor, had few qualms in expressing outright opposition to these policies in the various discussions between Number 10 and the Treasury. He reserved his own strongest criticisms for tuition fees where, like Brown, Ed viewed fees as a deterrent to children from poorer families attending university and feared the creation of a marketplace in higher education. His preferred option was a graduate tax-under which students would essentially pay their tuition costs through general taxation once they began work-and he was **"pretty uncompromising",** according to a former Blair aide who debated the issue with Ed at the time.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Meanwhile, in the House of Commons, I started to sound out MPs. The good news was that the early adopters were just the sort of people I wanted: bright, sane, forward-looking, and popular with other colleagues. The less good news was that there weren't very many of them. When we first got together in my office in 343 Portcullis House on 13 June (2005) there were just fifteen MPs present: Greg Barker, Richard Benyon, John Butterfill, Michael Gove, Boris Johnson, Oliver Letwin, Peter Luff, George Osborne, Andrew Robathan, Hugh Robertson, Nicholas Soames, Hugo Swire, Ed Vaizey, Peter Viggers and, of course, me.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_Samantha is feeling much happier in Number 10 than she had expected, though she is still painfully shy. She has redesigned the flat (largely at their own expense) to look elegant but homely, like all the places they had lived in: **"She had properly nested in it"** says an aide. **"She was feeling much more settled, and her state of mind soothes him. They have a home upstairs in Downing Street to escape to, which she likes, and that helps him too."** When Samantha is happy, so is he...If Ivan and Ian were the greatest influences on him, Samantha is the sheet anchor of his life and premiership. She brings him down to earth. **"She is so creative and supportive. The key thing for me is sanity at home. Samantha is absolutely amazing at it"** he says. **"Take our first summer in 2010. We'd been living in the flat above Downing Street and then we went off to Cornwall, and she had our baby and somehow or other she manages to completely redesign our flat and make it a home for us all."** He cannot fathom how she manages to bring up the family, maintain her own work as a creative consultant at the luxury leather goods firm Smythson, and be extensively involved in charity without courting personal publicity.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_After our initial scepticism, we had created a great home in No. 10. The biggest factor in this was Samantha. She was the one who did all the work to make our home life there so successful. She was the one who thought so carefully about how to protect our children and keep them grounded with their old friends and in their existing schools. She was the one who looked after me and kept me vaguely sane. At the same time, she fulfilled the role of prime minister's wife in the most brilliant way. It's not easy to do. Simply carry on with your own career, and you are criticised for not helping. Stay totally in the background, protecting your family, and you are accused of shrinking away. Back your husband or wife too vigorously, and you're accused of meddling in politics. And heaven forbid that you speak out and offer a political opinion of your own...._ _Sam was growing to love it there too. While we were in the No.10 flat she was preparing a refurbishment of the much bigger one in No.11, where the Blairs and Browns had lived with their families. When we arrived it felt a bit like a tired London hotel-lots of brown furniture, pink carpets and damask. But beyond that there were beautifully proportioned rooms, high ceilings, tall windows and a sweeping staircase with an Adam-esque dome above. Samantha was determined to bring it up to date and get it finished over the summer (of 2010). Heavily pregnant with Florence, she would be marshalling builders, plasterers, decorators and carpenters while at the same time dealing with the No.10 works department and clearing all the hurdles involved in making changes to a listed and complicated building._

_We decided that we would add our own money to the allowance set aside to ensure that the occupants kept the place up to scratch and didn't allow it to become dilapidated. It was well spent, and Sam did an amazing job. It was fresh and cool, but cosy too. The kitchen became the heart of the flat-and it was there that the dramas of family life, with all its tears, tantrums, homework crises, nit combs, art projects, cooking experiments and family arguments were played out over the next six years.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_Whatever the nuances of his privilege, Osborne enjoyed a gilded start to life. He was sent to the private Chelsea Open Air Nursery, where he passed the day riding scooters and building bunkers out of wood and tarpaulin...All of Osborne's schooling took place in the capital. He moved from Chelsea Open Air to Fox Primary School, in the state sector, before arriving at Norland Place, an exclusive primary in Holland Park, at the age of seven. There he was reunited with Ben Slotover, a boy from Knightsbridge whom he had first befriended at nursery. Their parents knew each other and would often holiday together, but the boys were closer. Slotover recalls the young Gideon Osborne, or **"Giddy"** as his friends knew him, as a **"rambunctious boy"** who was **"up for everything."** Norland Place was **"extremely conservative"** , recalls a classmate. While boys did their sums, girls would play dress-up. Maths was not something for the fairer sex but Osborne relished it. Pupils were ranked according to how many of their multiplication tables they could recite. He and Slotover, both of whom had received extra tuition at home, were joint first in completing the twelve times tables. In a boyish trial of his competitive zeal, Osborne volunteered to learn number thirteen. His teacher had to mark him using a calculator, but victory was his. Another teacher, Miss Hutchings, sought to foster competition by dividing Osborne's class into **"concords"** and **"harriers"** , but this proved more effective than she had bargained for. Things got out of hand and culminated in a playground melee in which the two tribes rolled heavy rubber tyres at each other. Osborne, a concord, **"got stuck in"** , according to one of his bruised victims. In 1980, Osborne began preparatory school, where the education of privileged children really takes shape. His parents chose Colet Court in Barnes, the feeder school for adjacent St Paul's, where Osborne would migrate at the start of his teenage years.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Colet Court, which was for boys only, was **"a hideous prefab building that looked as though it would have had asbestos all over it"** , remembers one of Osborne's contemporaries there. Slotover followed Osborne to prep school, where they befriended a South African boy named Mungo Soggot whose family had left their troubled country just three years earlier. Soggot's mother Greta would often drive Osborne and her son to school; when he was old enough, the future Chancellor would take the number 9 bus from Kensington High Street. Their gang of friends also included Ken Harris, Nathaniel Billington and Alexander Ramm. There was another Nathaniel at school. His surname was Rothschild. But, remembers one of Osborne's crowd, **"we didn't really hang out with him."** Fairer of hair and frecklier of cheek than the adult version, the young Osborne was **"a mixture of maturity and mischief"** , says Soggot, a characterisation that gets anyone who knew him as a boy nodding. He had the seriousness of an older sibling and the playfulness of a child to whom life had been exceptionally kind. He was not yet an academic high-performer, though. Osborne would go on to shine, even sparkle, at St Paul's but he struggled at prep school. Colet Court was intensely competitive and aggressively streamed. There were four classes of roughly twenty in each year, and every test and half-term report helped to determine the set in which a boy was placed. The staff, too, were a fearsome bunch. Glen Mowbray, who taught Latin, imposed exacting standards. One of the history teachers, a former army man who went by the improbably apposite name of Major Payne, watched over boys as they copied out page after page from textbooks by longhand. Some of Osborne's peers now complain that teachers were hired on the basis of their expertise in their subject, rather than their actual gift for teaching. The result was a pitiless environment for children who were not innately gifted. Osborne was below average at every subject and, at the start of his second year in 1981, he was relegated to the lowest stream. A classmate recalls Osborne finding out the news by seeing his name on a list pinned to a wall. He was visibly crestfallen but stirred to redeem himself. **"I remember his absolute determination to get out of that stream."** He did it in one term. One shortcoming Osborne would never fix was his athletic incompetence. Tellingly, he avoided Colet Court's sports field in favour of its computer room.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_These years also saw the first intimations of something less common: an interest in politics, or at least public life. His fascination with history, the subject in which he would immerse himself academically for the next decade, was obvious to any visitor to his bedroom. The spacious perch at the top of 36 Porchester Terrace included the usual accoutrements of formulaic boyhood: a computer,a Rubik's cube, a stamp collection ( **"Of course he had to have a penny black"** , says a friend.) But there was also a poster of Winston Churchill (Slotover had one of David Bowie) and a display case of war memorabilia. Osborne never missed an episode of satires such as Not The Nine O'Clock News and Yes, Minister. While his family were not especially political, international events were the subject of dinner-table chatter. At the age of just seven, he was gripped by the murky murder of the Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov, assassinated with a ricin-tipped umbrella on Waterloo Bridge, and scrawled pictures of the incident at school. Osborne would help his mother run an Amnesty International stall at local church fetes. Friends at Colet Court recall him as wholly unique at their school in bringing up politics as a subject of conversation. As part of a school trip, he was given a tour of Parliament by James Callaghan, who had only left Downing Street a few years earlier. He was captivated. Then, on the eve of moving up to St Paul's School in 1984, Osborne made what some cynics suspect was his first political decision. For almost as long as he could remember, he had grumbled to his parents about his name. Tired of fielding the grievance, Felicity finally suggested doing something about it. With a trip to a deed poll office, her first-born became George Gideon Oliver Osborne. He chose his new name in honour of his war-hero grandfather; that it required no change of initial was a bonus. (It did not seem to occur, or matter, that George Osborne was also the name of a pretty scoundrel who perishes in the Battle of Waterloo in Thackeray's Vanity Fair.) His friends were discombobulated by the news: Slotover assumed that only adults could change their names, and Soggot had never heard of a deed poll before. Surprisingly quickly, though, they adjusted to it, and so did everyone else in Osborne's life.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_St Paul's could have been an ordeal for him. After all, he arrived at the ferociously academic school as a middling performer. Having failed to make the scholarship set from Colet Court, he got in through the common entrance exam. Neither was he much good at sport, which vied with study for primacy in the school's life. **"I get my exercise from typing and writing"** he would tell friends. As it turned out, Osborne became a minor legend at St Paul's-a star pupil and a provocative presence. His breakthrough came quickly. In his first year, there was a chance at a scholarship for boys who had missed out on one initially. Osborne was entered for this exam by his teachers because they thought he needed practice in pressured situations, not because they expected he would pass. Yet when the roster of successful applicants was announced in a school assembly, Osborne was among them. **"I remember my complete astonishment when they read out my name"** he says, more than a quarter of a century later. His appointment as a John Colet Scholar gave him a miniature silver fish to wear on his lapel, symbolising Christ's miraculous catch in the Sea of Galilee. It also left him with a trust in his own intellect that has never faded.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Cameron had a **"last supper"** (coronation chicken with **"some nice wine provided by a donor")** that evening in the Downing Street state dining room with his family, closest aides, and some MPs who had supported his leadership from the start, like Hugo Swire, Greg Barker, and Richard Benyon. The outgoing prime minister talked about his **"partnership"** with George Osborne and thanked his wife for **"never putting a foot wrong"** as his consort. He also joked about the speed with which he brought about his own downfall: **"They say all political careers end in failure. I had hoped to have a slow, gradual decline, but it has come with a juddering halt instead."** The rapidity of it all had shocked those around him, who had confidently expected him to remain as prime minister until 2018 or 2019. **"We thought we had another three years to go"** said one aide. **"Then it was another three months, and it ended up being three days."** It was left to Samantha to cheer everyone up, thanking her husband for being able to put his work behind him when he went back to the flat, and saying **"he doesn't shout at the kids"** whatever the crisis going on downstairs. She said she had not looked forward to living in Downing Street, but insisted she had been **"very happy"** there. A friend said, **"Everyone thinks she's like, "Hip, hip hooray, open the bloody champagne, got this thing over and done with." But it's not really like that."**_

_The Cameron children ran around the dining room with their cousins. It would be a great upheaval for them, too. **"Florence keeps talking about going back to the old house"** one guest said. **"David has to explain she's never actually lived at the old house. Then she went back to the old house, saw how small her bedroom was, and said, "Daddy, I want you to stay on being prime minister!""** -All Out War: The Full Story Of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class, Tim Shipman_

* * *

_On 10 July (2011), Mum gets a call from Mark Lewis on his mobile. As usual, the reception's bad and she struggles to hear him. He says, **"Would you be interested in going to a meeting with Nick Clegg?"**_

_**"Who?"** _

_**"Nick Clegg, the deputy prime minister,** Sally."...That day Mum, Dad and I meet with opposition leader Ed Miliband as well as Nick Clegg. We tell them both that we have been made to wash our dirty linen in public, and that politicians must now do the same: find out the truth and sort out what has gone so wrong that the police and the law stood by and let the News of the World get on with hacking thousands of innocent people. Both men are genuinely outraged; both give undertakings to get to the bottom of the scandal. It feels good to be taken so seriously....Just before we leave, I pluck up courage to ask Hugh (Grant), **"If we're invited to meet with David Cameron, will you come with us?"** But Hugh is aware of the impact of his role as a British prime minister in Love Actually, in which he famously dances down the stairs at Number 10. He says **"I'm afraid that it wouldn't be appropriate. The press won't be able to resist doing something about me, and I'm not the point."**...Everything to do with Milly is charged with electric interest. So we shouldn't be astonished that now the party leaders seem to want to meet and talk with our family-and other victims of crime-more than they want to meet with the starrier people in Hacked Off._

_On 13 July, Mark tells us, David Cameron will announce a judge-led inquiry into press ethics and behaviour. It seems that he would like our blessing to set a seal on this new direction. Dazed and broken as we are, we decide to support this move. We are going to Downing Street to meet the prime minister.- My Sister Milly, Gemma Dowler_

_I choose a grey dress, with a grey-and-white striped jacket. Mum wears blue-and-white stripes with a blue white-edged jacket. Dad's in blue stripes too-his shirt. It may look like it, but I don't **think** we're consciously adopting a prison uniform. First we go to the public gallery in the House of Commons to hear David Cameron announce at Prime Minister's Questions what will soon be called **"The Leveson Inquiry."** Its task will be to investigate illegal activity at News International and other media groups. It will also look into the culture, practices and ethics of the British press, including over-cosy or financial links between politicians, police and journalists._

_We march over to Downing Street, accompanied by Mark Lewis and various members of Hacked Off. Mum gets to lift the Number 10 door-knocker and rap it smartly. Of course, it's just ceremonial. There's someone already waiting right behind the door to let us in. I have to suppress a giggle as we walk up the stairs of Number 10. Hugh was right: it's impossible not to remember him dancing down them in Love Actually. We're shown into a room lined with cream bookshelves. David Cameron stands up to greet us-shaking hands with everybody. At his touch, the usual painful thought runs through my mind: the honour of speaking with the prime minister has come at the expense of Milly's life._

_He immediately says that he's absolutely outraged at what has happened to us. Then he moves swiftly into a discussion about the logistics of a public inquiry. Again, it's very technical, and I drift into my own thoughts. David Cameron comes across as a very well-to-do man and extremely well-educated. Looking at him, listening to his confident voice, it seems impossible that such a successful politician, at the top of his powers, has apparently been unable to do more to prevent or stop hacking. I've also read the stories about how much he socializes with his country neighbours Rebekah Brooks and Elizabeth Murdoch, Rupert's daughter. I know that when he employed Andy Coulson as his press secretary, a former News of the World executive ended up in one of the most influential jobs in the country. **That** does not seem to me to be a piece of excellent statesmanship or judgement now that Coulson is under arrest. **Why,** I've wondered, **is everyone so afraid of Rupert Murdoch, that they cut their own throats to keep him happy?** _

_After giving his speech to the campaigners, David Cameron asks, **"May I see the Dowler family in private now?"** Everyone files out except Mark, his assistant and ourselves. A couple of prime ministerial advisers stand at the side of the room. We're given tea. Biscuits are served on bone china. They are not chocolate biscuits like the ones served to Hugh Grant in Love Actually._

_David Cameron says he is very sorry for our loss. He adds, with dignity, **"I know what it's like to lose a child."** His own son Ivan, a severely disabled little boy, died in February 2009. He was just six years old. We express our empathy._

_I know we are principally there to allow our prime minister to show compassion and respect for us. I know there will be an official photograph to immortalize this moment. Suddenly I'm tired of being passive and pitied. I'm tired of listening. We've seen heads shaken sorrowfully before, most notably our ordeal at the trial. The vestiges of Good Gemma are pretty tattered, these days. There is something I need to say. While my parents sip their tea, I feel sentences building in my head. Out they come._

_**"You know, we can all sit around for ever discussing the pros and cons of a public inquiry. But that's not really the point"** I tell David Cameron. **"You've got to face up to the Rupert Murdochs of this world. This behaviour is completely unacceptable."** The room falls silent, apart from my insistent voice. Mum's and Dad's faces are frozen. But this is 2012. I can't be sent to the Tower for what I say. Knowing that, I say plenty. I look the prime minister in his blue eyes. **" You could be the one to make the changes! You! If you just aired all this dirty laundry and did something about it, people would respect you more. You need to man up!" ** I glance at my father. **"My dad didn't have any choice as to whether his dirty laundry would be aired in front of the whole world. Especially since Bellfield was allowed to see that evidence, even though it was irrelevant. And he was allowed to have it used in the trial."**_

_I tell David Cameron about the police's harassment of my father, when their only theory was that Dad killed Milly. I tell him about the senior officer who said that Surrey Police were not looking for anyone else in connection with Milly's disappearance. I tell him about the police saying, just after Milly went missing, that if Dad ever slept in the same bed as me they would arrest him-this at a moment when I was hysterically afraid of being alone._

_At that David Cameron flinches. I'm suddenly sure that he knows what it is to comfort a distressed child at night, that he's stayed by a distressed child until he or she finally falls asleep. He asks me, **"Do you want to take this further?"**_

_I say, **"I don't want to put my parents through that."** I have wandered off topic. I return to the matter of press hacking. **"Why can't you,"** I urge David Cameron, **"be the leader who sets a new precedent for press ethics?"**_

_David Cameron promises, **"It's already in motion."**_

_**"Good"** I say._

_The meeting is over. My parents thank the prime minister for his time. As we're leaving, one of David Cameron's advisers puts a hand on my arm reassuringly. **"That was an amazing speech, Gemma. I truly felt the Chariots of Fire music should have been playing when you finished!"** He adds, **"You could have a good career in public speaking."**_

_This is when I dare to think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, what I have said could actually make a difference. You can see it in the photo. I'm looking at David Cameron. Mum and Dad look serious, but I have a different expression on my face. I look like a girl who has just woken up to discover that she's not quite as helpless as she thought. My eyes are super-alert. What you see in that photo is a girl who has just realized she can speak truth to power. She's not afraid to do it. In fact, she insists._

_Outside Number 10, my bravery collapses in tears. I can put on that truth-to-power face and voice. For a few moments. There's a cost. I feel hollowed out, exhausted. The press are waiting for us in the street, of course, so now there's another picture, showing my naked vulnerability. Mum strokes my wet cheek. Dad bends over us both, his face soft with concern. In the meantime, we fulfil our end of the unspoken bargain. Mark releases the statement we've prepared: **"The Dowlers are delighted the Prime Minister has announced a full, judge-led inquiry, and that politicians from all three parties have reacted so quickly....in response to the outrage of the public in respect not only of Milly but all the victims of such unlawful practices, and failures in the pursuit by the police and failures by the politicians. This shows the power of the public, however big an organization is, to stand up and say "something isn't right." Like most scandals, this wasn't about malign conduct. It was about the attempts to cover it up. When people cover up things, they are not fit and proper to run something."** -My Sister Milly, Gemma Dowler_

_On 1 October, the mood changes, briefly. I do a photo-shoot for Cosmopolitan magazine's December issue. I've been nominated as "Ultimate Family Girl" because of my bravery at the trial and throughout the hacking scandal...On 3 November, Mum and I attend the official Cosmo Ultimate Woman Award dinner at the Banqueting House in London. I dress edgy for this occasion: a black plunging number with lace. We meet other nominees, including Lisa and Louise Hawker, who campaigned for justice for their sister Lindsay, murdered in Japan in 2007. Lindsay was raped and strangled. Her Japanese murderer then tried to dispose of her body in a particularly gruesome way. This summer, the family has had to sit through a harrowing trial in Japanese. One of the sisters had by that time taught herself the language so that she could translate proceedings for the rest of the family. Lisa and Louise have won the Editor's Choice Award. We spend time chatting with the sisters and their mother Julia-Jules. We pose for pictures together. Accepting the Ultimate Family Girl award, I read a short speech about how I plan to draw a line under the terrible years that have passed. As I listen to the applause, I think, **If only it could be that easy.**_

_We leave with Lisa and Louise Hawker and their mother. They're staying at the same hotel as Mum and me. The banquet supper was very light for a group of healthy young women...too light, so we stop the taxi on the way back to the hotel. We emerge from it in our posh dresses and invade a McDonald's. We fasten our Ultimate teeth around Big Macs and strawberry milkshakes. Holding up our Ultimate Woman Statuettes, we blag a free bag of chips. The award is already proving its worth. Back at the hotel, the Hawkers come to our bedroom for more talk. We sit on the beds, trading our intense and terrible experiences, asking questions. Mum's dress is tight, so she sheds it, and continues chatting in her slip. The conversation would, to an outsider, seem bizarre. Yet who else can you ask but another victim family when you want to know something like, **"How long does it take to strangle someone?"**_

_The answer is three and a half minutes. Louise tells us that in the trial of Lindsay's murderer, the court was made to sit in silence for exactly that time. It felt like ages. She explains that this was done to demonstrate that a strangler has plenty of time to change his mind, to decide not to kill. Lisa, Louise and Jules are serious and knowledgeable. We are all candid with one another. I'm so grateful to those brave women._

_The next day Mum and I are invited to breakfast with Samantha Cameron. I pose on the steps of Number 10, wearing a red dress with a gold belt and a smile that the press have not seen all year.- My Sister Milly, Gemma Dowler _

* * *

_"_ _From the very beginning-from the first moment, I may almost say-of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry." -Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen_

_"The story of us: You need me to turn you wild. And I need you. I need you to be my conscience, Dex, just like you need me to be your id. And we don't work apart. -Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_"There's a thin line between love and hate, isn't there? Katie's heard that, but always thought it was a load of bollocks. How could anyone possibly love someone they hated?_

_(When she thinks about it-and she has, more and more lately-she thinks hate isn't more than a perverse kind of love. What other way to explain the sheer energy required to hate someone?)" -The Kite, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_"It doesn't have to be a big deal" I said. "It can just be one more stupid thing the two of us tried together."_

_Coley kept on sitting where my hip bones jutted out, all of her weight on me, and having her there was maddening. I wanted to pull her down on top of me. But she still didn't say anything. So I waited and I panicked, and I listened to Tom Petty singing from the cab of the truck, and I thought about Lindsey and how she had warned me about this exact stupid thing, and how I just couldn't help myself._

_I tried again. "C'mon, Coley. We don't even have to talk about it. It's no big deal."_

_"It is too" she said._

_"Why?"_

_"For lots of reasons."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I didn't really think I'd like it and I did." She said it like ammunition. -The Miseducation Of Cameron Post, Emily M. Danforth_

* * *

Ed manages to get his office door closed before his face is in his hands.

Ok.

Just move to the couch. Step by step.

Do everything one thing at a time.

That's how he'll get through it. That's how he'll get through _everything_ from now on. He'll-just only focus on the one single thing right in front of him. For the rest of.....for the rest of....ad infinitum, that's better, that'll work, it'll, it'll, he-he doesn't need to ever think about-

His stomach plunges with the sudden assault of sense memory.

Ed sinks down slowly against the door, his forehead pressing against his knees.

Oh God.

Ok. OK. Stay calm-

Oh God. Oh _GOD-_

_Robert Walpole-_

Ed's mind immediately scrambles forward to find Cameron's name at the end of the familiar recitation and promptly chucks it out of the window forever.

(Fantastic, he can't help but think, even as he wonders seriously whether he's going to have a heart attack. Cameron's even managed to invade _that_ fucking part of his life.)

Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God-

He-he

Oh God-

He kissed-

He kissed him, he kissed-

Oh _God-_

No. _No._ Cameron- _Cameron_ kissed _him-_ and Ed has to be firm on this point, because how else is he ever going to-ever going to forget-about-

Ed's mouth actually scrabbles silently for words as he tries to grasp what just happened.

It-

It-

He-

They-

It-

It can't have-

Ed's almost about to try and convince himself that that's the truth.

It can't have-

Him and-

_He kissed me._

_I kissed-I kissed-_

Cameron.

_I kisse-_

Fucking David _Cameron._

Ed almost laughs. Then he has to bury his head between his knees, squeezing them tightly against his temples, his own hot, rapid breaths making his cheeks burn, making the world tilt slightly, so for a horrible moment, he thinks he's going to faint.

Oh God. Oh God.

It can't be true.

Tears prickle at his eyes.

 _"J-Jesus-"_ He's half-scrubbing at them with his wrist. "Oh, for _fuck'th-"_ His voice breaks in what's almost a sob.

Cameron's mouth was warm and soft and his hand had been pressing into Ed's back like he wanted to pull him further in-

That-

That-

No. No. Ed can't think about this.

He can't.

He presses his face into his hands like he can crawl between his fingers.

Oh God.

One thing at a time.

Don't think about it.

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod._

* * *

David isn't even sure how he makes it into the flat.

Thinking about it, he's not even sure how he managed the journey.

He can remember making some excuse to George, getting into the car, going in through the back entrance-he'll shake off that look George had given him, dark eyes narrowing as David's cheeks had burnt with the truth, his thoughts scrambling around his skull for a way out, filled every few seconds with a heartbeat of Miliband's mouth against his own, he can deal with that later, he can deal with it _all_ later-coming up the stairs. But all of it feels vaguely unreal, as though he's watching it through clouded glass.

"What is it?" Sam asks, the moment she sees him in the living room doorway.

David can't answer her-he just makes a low, wet sound in the back of his throat, terrified he'll start to cry.

"Dave." Sam steps towards him, puts her arms up and round his neck, which is when David kisses her.

He doesn't have to think to do it, his mouth finding hers' like breathing. His hands press into Sam's hair, and he's breathing her name, first into her mouth, then into her neck, _"Sam, Sam-"_ , hands tightening around her, fingers digging into her blouse-it's blue, carefully angled, one she's made herself, he can tell.

She's beautiful. She's so beautiful.

Sam's hands are on his back, pulling at his shirt. She's pulling him gently, her mouth meeting his again now, guiding him up the stairs. He can't stop kissing her, his feet stumbling over the steps, pulling at his tie, her arms wrapping around his neck now, so he's half-carrying her, kissing her fiercely, almost desperately, and David can feel it with the thundering of his pulse, _I kissed him, I kissed him, I kissed him-_

"Dave" Sam's saying, as he half-falls onto the bed, and then "Dave" very softly, as he gasps for air, the sound tearing wetly at his mouth, and then "Dave", as she feels the tears soaking into her shoulder. "Dave."

All David can do is shake his head, pressing his face into her shoulder, pressing frantic kisses there, her blouse half-damp with tears. His face is wet and she's stroking his hair, as his body shakes with silent sobs.

* * *

"So-" Nick Robinson takes another sip of his wine, with a frown. "You're absolutely sure that he and Justine won't want the boys' faces obscured? Or any measures taken to disguise them at all?"

Tom shakes his head vigorously. "No, no-Ed wants it made clear to the public, they're, they're a family unit."

Nick thinks, but doesn't say, that it wouldn't occur to most families to dwell on whether or not other people would find their partners and children a natural family unit, that the thought wouldn't even need to cross most people's minds.

"It's just-" he says, as delicately as possible. "I don't think David Cameron's children are going to have their faces shown. And Nick Clegg's aren't even being filmed at all."

Tom frowns at him. "Ed" he says, tone slightly shorter than usual. "Wants to be able to show how important the boys are to him."

Nick resists the temptation to point out that he's pretty sure David Cameron and Nick Clegg both find their children pretty important to them too, but that neither of them seem to feel the need to prove it by splashing them all over the screen.

"Anyway-" Tom spears another chunk of chow mein."It'll help to reinforce what we're about. The issues that worry most people. Like what Ed was saying today in the Commons."

"Oh?" One of the best words in the world, in Nick's experience, can be a politely questioning "Oh?". Sometimes accompanied by a mild tilting of the head. Never with too much eye contact.

"Well, with the tax avoidance." Tom nods as though that makes the words truer. "That sort of thing-standing up to the vested interests, is exactly what Ed's about. Like with Leveson-" Tom chuckles as he takes another bite. "That in there was a Milly Dowler moment, really."

It's only owing to Nick's years of honing his self-control as a journalist that he manages to pause for only the slightest of moments.

But then, he knows what'll be most effective here.

"Oh?" he says, and then, with another bite of his spring roll, and a slight tilt of the head, and a polite smile, he lets Tom Baldwin talk himself and Ed Miliband together deeper and deeper into a hole.

* * *

"I kissed him."

David doesn't actually know when he says it. But he knows that he feels his breath catch in his throat, because then he shakes his head. "No. He kissed me. But I-I kissed-"

His voice trembles. His head's still buried in Sam's shoulder "I-"

Sam just holds him. Her arms tighten enough that it hurts, and he has one of those strange moments where a memory comes out of nowhere, watching Samantha carry Ivan on one hip, even as he slumped into her, a dead weight, and push his wheelchair with one hand, her muscles all climbing to the surface at once. It was times like those that David, looking at her, willowy with not a gram of weight clinging to her, and thought his wife was the strongest person in the world.

"Sam-" David wraps himself around her, trying to climb into her. "Sam."

It takes a moment before she lets out a long, shaking breath.

"OK" is all she says, not quite crying. "OK. OK. We can-that's-that's-"

She doesn't say any more. She just rolls over and lets David bury his face in her shoulder for a few moments.

"What do I do?" he breathes, and then panic's gripping his chest. "What do I-oh God, what do I do, what do I-"

"Dave." Sam takes his face between her hands. "Dave-Dave-"

David takes a deep breath, because he's got to, he's got to, God, how is Sam being so fucking _calm_ about this-

"What happened?" Sam's voice is low, firm, and David sinks both hands into it eagerly, desperately trying to find some firm purchase.

"You mean-"

"After. What did-what did he say-"

"Nothing, that's, that's, that's the thing-" David raises his head, his eyes damp and red-rimmed, his cheeks blotchy with tears. "He-we were arguing-he-he-he-" He makes a gesture with one hand. "And then he ran. Out. Out the room."

There's a moment of silence before Sam says "He kissed you."

"What?"

"You keep saying _"He kissed me.""_

David shakes his head. "We. We-" He shakes it again, thoughts racing into each other, as though trying to escape him. "It just-it-it was so fucking _fast._ But it-it felt like-it was both of us." His voice trails off. "It just felt like he moved first." The last few words are a whisper.

Sam is silent, digesting this.

"I'm sorry" David whispers, the words breaking into the air between them, and then, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry", the words almost a lullaby pressed into her skin, his teeth almost grazing her neck, he's burying his head and his words into her so deeply.

Sam doesn't say anything. She just wraps her arms around him very tightly, shushing into his ear, like one of the children, holding him close, while David gasps in tear-filled drags of air and tries to hold onto her.

* * *

"What's going on?" Nick demands, turning around the leather chair in his study. "I thought they were going to bloody leap on each other after that PMQs."

George hesitates a second too long. Nick frowns, but then George speaks a little too quickly. "You know what PMQs is like."

"Yeah, and that isn't it."

"We're getting near the election, you know what that does-"

"I know when you're not fucking answering questions."

George sighs, but Nick waits stubbornly, gripping the mobile phone tighter. "What was going on?"

Nick isn't stupid. He'd felt those words crackling between them over the dispatch box, never mind seen them. Felt Miliband's glower fixed on David, almost under each beat of his own heart, felt the tautness in David's jaw a few seats away, sharpening his words.

"I suppose-" George says, slowly. "If you really think there's anything more to it, you would need to ask Dave."

Typical Osborne.

Nick rolls his eyes. "Well, he's not really likely to tell me, is he?"

There's a long silence, before George says, very softly, "He would have done."

Nick draws in a long breath. "Yeah, well-maybe once-"

There's another silence.

Then, "I thought you were the one who wanted to separate a bit."

Nick sighs. He leans his head against the wall, remembers testing a drawer, sliding it in and out, Florence crawling around the floor, fascinated with her own sudden ability to pull one knee in front of the other.

"I just wondered" is all he says, the words dwindling into the heavy distance between them.

* * *

David groans, pressing his cheek into Sam's shoulder. "I can't bloody go back there."

Sam, glancing down at him, arches an eyebrow. "Right, so that's the solution? You just stay in our bedroom until you both die of old age?"

"That's presumptuous" David manages to mutter, mustering up a trace of his usual humour.

Sam strokes his hair in reply. David lifts his head, stares at her.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" His voice is a whisper.

Sam stares at him. "Would you rather I slapped you?"

David's forehead creases. "I don't know. Would you like to?"

Sam stares at him, then tilts her head and kisses him very hard, mouth open and teeth clashing, and then very gently, their lips softening together, her hand on his cheek, his caught in her hair, trapping strands between his fingers.

David stares at her as they break apart, as she nestles her head into his chest. "What do you want me to do?" he says helplessly.

Sam doesn't speak for a few minutes. For a moment, David thinks she's fallen asleep.

Then, very quietly, she says, "That's up to you, though, isn't it?"

David grimaces. "I can't-I can't-" He has to scrabble for the words. _"Speak_ to him."

"That's going to be quite difficult, Dave."

David groans. "He _ran_ out of that room."

Sam just presses her cheek into his chest, as his nose burrows into her hair. David stares down at her.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks again, this time in a whisper.

Sam just looks at him, then breathes his name quietly.

David can't catch the look in her eyes, then.

But then, sitting up slightly, she says, "And by the way, you need to invite them to Elwen's birthday."

David sits there for a moment, sure he's misheard her. Then he blinks.

"Wait, _what?"_ He stares at her, blinking, still trying to grasp the words. "You-you're still-we're still-"

Sam's propping herself up on her elbow, staring at him. "It's not affecting the _kids_ , Dave" she says, firmly, blue eyes suddenly flinty. "They're not missing out just because you and Ed Miliband can't grow the hell up about the fact you kissed him-"

 _"He_ kissed _me!"_

"Whatever." Sam waves this away.

"What do you mean, _whatever?"_ David splutters, staring at her. "I'd say it's quite a bloody important distinction!"

"Not really." Sam pushes her hair back, gathering it up in her hands. "I mean, it's not like you didn't kiss him, too."

David's face is burning. His mouth opens and closes fruitlessly.

Sam sighs and covers his hand with hers'. "You have to talk to him."

David drops his face into his hands. "I can't" he admits in a mumble, the words crumbling between his fingers.

Sam's voice is gentle, like the touch of her hand on his face. "Why?"

"Because-" Sam's hand has moved to stroking his hair, and David takes a moment to let himself blurt it out, eyes squeezed shut.

"Because-what if-what if-what if we do-do it again?"

There's a silence which seems to last an age.

Then, Sam says, very softly, "Do you _want_ to do it again?"

David presses his face into his hands. "Maybe-no-I don't fucking _know_ " he bursts out, and then he's dragging his hands through his hair, pulling his hand across his damp face, sniffing hard. "I didn't bloody think anything was going to happen _today_ -but-we were fighting and he-we-we just-"

Sam is silent, her hand stroking his hair gently, trailing it through her fingers.

"You know you've got to decide" she says softly, and David just buries his head in her shoulder, grabs onto the fierce beat of her heart, holds it tight against his own.

* * *

"A Milly Dowler moment?" Ed stares at him. _"A Milly Dowler moment?"_

Tom holds up his hands. "OK. Look. I might have said the wrong thing-"

"The _wrong thing?"_ Ed almost explodes. _"The wrong thing?"_

Tom slams his hand against the car window. "Well, how was I to know Robinson would go and put it in his fucking blog?!"

Ed shakes his head, turns away, fuming.

Tom might have known bloody Robinson would report it-

It's obvious what he _meant._ He just meant it was a similar level.

An abuse of power by those at the top. That's what he _meant._

People can _see_ that-

And so-it was wrong, but-but it's only the _way_ he phrased it, he, he-

Ed gnaws at his lip, trying to ignore the uncomfortable, panicked swoop in his chest, as though he's missed a step going downstairs.

"Look, I'll get Robinson on the phone-" Tom's already yanking his mobile out.

"No." Ed snatches it out of his hand. _"No._ Do not get Robinson on the fucking phone."

"Oh, for-"

"Because he'll know you're-" Ed throws his hands up. "You've got me in the bloody car with you, and he'll-"

He didn't mean it.

But-the words-

_Milly Dowler moment._

They jolt uncomfortably in Ed's chest.

Even-even if it's just a distraction-

He glances quickly at the headlines spread over Tom's lap, at the picture of the smiling girl staring out from half of them, that hair that was a mix of blonde and brown, the way that seems so particular to girls of that age, as though their hair's deciding who it is just as they are, her eyes crinkled in teenage laughter.

Well.

It-it doesn't feel right-

He remembers four years before, the light from the huge windows in his office, touching the faces of the three people sitting next to him. Even though the trial had finished months ago, they still looked as though they were waiting for something to drop, clutching things tightly, as though waiting for something else to fall beneath them, something else to be taken away. It clung to them, so that Ed could feel it clinging to the air even as he spoke to them, always there.

Maybe-maybe mentioning Milly-

But they have to, Ed tries to tell himself too quickly. That's-that's the whole-

To make people _realise_ what's at stake, surely it-surely it doesn't matter-

The words ring with an ache in his chest, seem to swell in his throat.

Ed tries to tell himself it's just feelings. Just the thought of the reaction.

"Look, I didn't _know_ , OK?" Tom's stabbing at his phone vehemently. "I mean, how was I to know?"

"Maybe-" Ed's not quite sure where his voice comes from, wavering a little. "Maybe you _shouldn't_ have said it."

Tom gives him an impatient jerk of the head. "Oh, it was nothing-"

"Yeth, but it'th _not_ , is it?" Ed's surprised to hear his own voice, stronger this time. "It's not _nothing."_

Tom stares at him. "Ed-" He shakes his head, almost smiles. "Ed, you've got to look at the bigger picture here. You were showing up the Tories on tax avoidance, you were standing up for ordinary people-we just needed to get across the comparison-in the grand scheme of things-I mean, it's for the greater good, isn't it-"

_Weaponise the NHS._

Three words lodge like a stone in Ed's chest.

He can remember that, sitting at that dispatch box, staring at Cameron, shaking, because now he'd said that, all their statistics and research and bigger picture would be lost under, under _one phrase_ , and did it really even-

_Weaponise the NHS._

_Milly Dowler moment._

Ed squirms uncomfortably.

There's just-

Just something about-

"Maybe it th-still wathn't" he says, voice sounding a lot more certain than he feels. "Even with the bigger picture."

Tom, typing furiously on his phone, gives him an incredulous look, but then it buzzes and he claps it to his ear. "What the _hell_ is-"

Ed turns away uncomfortably, worrying at his lip, trying to ignore the words settling in his chest like a stone.

_Weaponise the NHS._

_Milly Dowler moment._

He can feel Cameron's hands twisting into his collar, those words hissed hot against his face. _You're weak, Miliband._

And he's thinking about Cameron again and he can't decide if those words are worse or better, but they're easier to think about than-and Ed turns away, as if that can hide him from the memory.

* * *

"Please mind the gap between the train and the platform-move right down inside the cars." David turns from the microphone he's leaning into to give George a grin. "I've _always_ wanted to do that."

Outside, he can hear Liz and the others cackling from further down the empty carriage as George rolls his eyes.

David doesn't care. He's always wanted to drive a train. He got excited enough driving a bus. Doesn't top a train, though.

Plus, he needs something else to focus on after their conversation of a few minutes before

"What was it?" George had hissed, during the few minutes they had off-camera, while the crew were lugging everything onto the train and getting it set up.

"Nothing" David had muttered back, taking a sip of the Starbucks coffee some godsend shop had seen fit to provide them with. "Miliband was just-he was just being-"

David's voice had wavered, with remembering just what Miliband's mouth was _just being._

"Impossible" he'd muttered, yanking his coat tighter around him, glancing further down the empty train carriage at Liz. "Bloody impossible. You know how he gets-"

_With his tongue down my throat._

David had felt himself blush suddenly, and had wondered if he could pass it off as rosy-cheeked health in the cold morning air.

Now, he's driving a train. (Despite everything else going on, nothing can quite reduce David's joy at this simple pleasure, as had been evidenced by the way he'd scrambled with unimpeded eagerness into the driver's seat.)

"But I've still got-I've still got quite a bit of acceleration to go if I want to-"

"Yeah, yeah-" The train worker who's showing them round, gruff and bearded in a very Northern way, nods. David wouldn't have pegged him for a Tory, but he guesses there are always some surprises.

"Yeah, right-"

As George leans over slightly, pointing at one of the levers, saying something David can't quite catch, it could have been a few minutes beforehand, standing in that train carriage, as George had leaned in casually, their aides congregating only a few metres away.

"Well, like I said" he'd murmured, his words grazing David's ear. "It's the impossibility that makes it appealing to you." He'd shrugged, taking a cautious sip of his own coffee. "You were the same with gay marriage."

David had blinked, then turned to stare at him. "What-you think the fact it's-what, out of reach-is what makes it-what attracts-"

His mouth had shut like a trap at that word and he'd blushed furiously as George had just arched an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't know" George had said, after allowing a few moments of excruciating silence to pass between them (which was really rather generous for George.) "But, the more difficult it is, the more you seem to bloody run at it. And then, the closer you get to it-" George had chucked his empty cup in the bin. "The harder you find it to give up on."

"Could be used to counteract that chillaxing thing" David had managed, gazing at his coffee cup and wondering if it would be possible to climb into it from sheer mortification.

George had just eyed him quietly. (David hates it when he eyes him quietly.)

Now, David stares ahead through the window at the tracks, loving the sight of them rushing out of sight beneath the wheels. He's aware of George at his side, hands folded.

"Right, so that's, that's, I'm at top speed-" He curls his fingers tighter around the red lever. "Doesn't matter if it bays-"

"No, no, at 60-er, yeah, no-"

David tests the lever again experimentally. "I'm at top-I'm at full, full compression-" He flexes his hand around the lever a little, enjoying it.

"Yes, look-" George leans in and the next second David knows, a whistle's going off right in his ear, a warning siren that nearly sends his heart through his ribs. It's only years of self-control that prevent him from jumping out of his seat.

"Oh, yeah, right, very good, thank you-" He gives George the sort of look that one deserves for almost puncturing his eardrum, and leans over meaningfully. "And the quiet one-"

A quieter whistle sounds, less piercing but no less noticeable, ringing warningly in the back of the mind for longer, even after the sound dies away.

George, out of view of the camera, raises an eyebrow. David resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Right, now, when do I need to start think-easing back-"

"Ermm-" The man next to them squints ahead. "We'll come to some stop-"

David doesn't quite catch his next words.

"All right-"

"It's not hard to slow down" the man reassures him, George at his side, taking it all in.

"Right-OK-"

"In the-just give you a little-bit more confidence-"

George's head tilts very slightly towards David's, and David can hear his words, murmuring in his ear. _The closer you get to it-_

"-that you _can_ stop."

David grits his teeth for barely a moment, squeezes the lever a little too hard.

_The closer you get to it-_

_That you can stop._

"Where are you going?" asks George, with the hint of a laugh in his voice, and David fights the urge to turn around, aim a swift foot to the shin of his Chancellor. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead as he thrusts the train forward, focusing with all his energy on keeping it from careering off the tracks.

* * *

"Don't say anything about "dodgy"" Tom had muttered before he went on stage. "Because we've got Fink's bloody lawyers on the phone-"-as if Ed could forget waking up to _that_ news this morning-"-and the last thing we need is him taking you to the fucking cleaners."

Ed had frowned. "But th-surely that'th a talking point" he'd managed, knuckling behind his ear. "Fink'th _wrong."_

"Yeah" Tom had muttered. "But a fucking lawsuit doesn't care, does it?"

Ed had struggled, but eventually, he'd shrugged. He supposed it was the easier route, after all, and on top of everything else, it seemed a good day to pick his battles.

"And for God's sake, don't say anything about Milly Dowler" Bob had muttered, with a glower at Tom. "Because the headlines are fucking creaming themselves already over that one. Especially now her parents' bloody lawyer's got involved."

Now, Ed finds himself standing on stage, pointing at the same man in the audience who landed them in this whole mess yesterday, with that same polite smile and shine of the glasses, and his own voice is saying, "I'll take Nick."

He can hear a few titters in the audience already-clearly, the Milly Dowler moment comment has seeped through. Bob'll kill Tom for this.

No doubt if it was an actual group of Haverstock pupils in front of Ed, the name would have been met with an array of blank looks, if that. But then, despite the fact they've made quite a big deal of trudging to Ed's old school for this speech, squinting at the audience, Ed is fairly sure that not a single one of the faces in front of him is actually a school pupil.

"Well, of course they're bloody not" Tom had barked at him, half an hour beforehand, at the back of the school assembly hall in which they're now standing. "What, did you think we were going to launch your fucking Education Plan to seventeen fucking kids sticking their fingers up behind your head and yelling out if you've ever shagged a bacon fucking sandwich?"

Ed had blinked. "But-I thought-"

"You'll be meeting some of the kids later" Rachel had offered placatingly.

"Yeah" Tom had muttered. "A very small, very quiet, _very fucking select_ some of them."

Ed had frowned, because "Young people _need_ to be engaged" he'd said defiantly, jerking his chin up. "They're far more interethted in the world than everyone thinks."

Tom had snorted. "Yeah, we're talking about _actual_ young people, Ed. Not you and your brother."

There'd been a thud from somewhere near the region of Tom's foot, and a wince. Rachel had glowered at him.

Ed had stuttered. "But-"

"Look, once you get to the classroom, you can do your _Dead Fucking Poets' Society_ act all you want. Out there, just give the fucking speech to people who are going to listen to at least fucking half of it."

But now, looking around at the faces of the decidedly not young people in front of him, Ed clears his throat.

"Now, I want you ladies and gentlemen to be very nice to the media-" His voice wavers a little more than he'd like, but it's important. "Sometimeths they ask me not very nice questions-" There are a few titters, which are encouraging. "But we have to be abth-solutely nice to them."

"Cameron's lot aren't going to be booing the bloody journalists" Stewart had announced that morning before they left, as if revealing his discovery of a revelatory cure for cancer, while Rachel had rolled her eyes. "It makes us look like kids. Like we're not serious enough to be considered credible."

Rachel had pondered this, tilting her head to one side, sucking on her pen. "Wow, Stewart. Have you got another pen? I really want to write this down."

"And I am very serious about that" Ed manages, trying to drag his thoughts away from the name that's just made a bloody reappearance in the forefront of his thoughts. (And he can't even do his bloody Prime Ministers recitation now.)

 _Cameron._ Ed feels a wave of wild, almost disbelieving laughter wavering in his throat as yesterday slams into him again.

"Thank you for the buildup" comes the unmistakeably dry tone Ed's all too familiar with, and suddenly, his heart's thudding, because, for God's sake, no one knows, don't be stupid, of course no one knows, it's not like there was anyone else in Cameron's bloody office, of course there wasn't-

"Nick Robinson, BBC News-"

And how can-how could _Cameron_ have bloody told anyone, he can't have, how the hell would that look, it-

"I think I'm asking you the question-"

Oh _God,_ oh God oh God oh God, Cameron must have CCTV in his offices, oh God, oh God-

"That I'm told you want to deal with-"

Oh. My. God.

Ed actually wonders if his legs are about to give way. Frantically, he wonders what would happen if he just went into cardiac arrest right now. Perhaps it would stop Robinson from asking the fucking question, at least.

No. He'd probably just turn and ask it straight to camera with a big grin, and interrupt all the TV channels with a live broadcast of Ed being carried out the hall, and Cameron would probably laugh his head off, because it would turn out _he'd_ told Robinson, and, and-

All he can do is stand there, frozen, staring at Nick, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck under the lights, _nononononononopleasepleasepleaselpleasepleasepleaseplease-_

"About tax avoidance-"

Ed almost collapses with relief, right there on the stage.

Oh, thank God. Oh, thank sweet, merciful, almost-definitely-doesn't-exist God.

"That's what your _aides_ say that you want to talk about, so I'm going to ask you about it." Nick arches an eyebrow at him over his glasses. Christ, what's Tom been saying to him?

"You say you're repeating what you said in the House Of Commons about Lord _Fink,_ the former Tory treasurer-"

Ed keeps his eyes on his papers, lowering his hands out of sight behind the podium, where they can shake, safely hidden away.

"I note that you only repeated one part of it-" A few jeers are already rising up-oh, he just _told_ them, for God's _sake-_ "In the next _sentence_ after talking about tax avoidance, you referred to _dodgy Tory donors-"_

Oh, _fuck._

"Are you saying-"

Shut up. _Shut up._

"That Lord Fink is _dodgy-"_

Oh, _brilliant._ Fucking _brilliant._

"And will you _use_ the word _dodgy_ -" Nick continues to smile politely up at him. That bloody smile. "Because-your Shadow Education Secretary _did_ -in the same sentence-"

Ed has to fight as he glances up not to look at Tristram and Keir, sitting in the front row. _Shit._

Robinson isn't finished. "And, if you'll forgive me, for the word _dodgy_ is rather important just now-"

Ed's fingers grind into the wood.

"Do you think it's dodgy to give a donation to a political party in _shares_ rather than cash-because it avoids tax?"

Cameron.

Ed can't even remember the name of the donor. But it was something Cameron said, said yesterday in the House Of Commons, he _knows_ it, he can _feel_ it under his heartbeat-

"Do you think it's _dodgy-"_ Robinson's voice is slower, more measured over each word.

"To use what's called in the trade-" Robinson pauses very deliberately. "A _deed of variation-"_

Ed's fingers bite into the podium. His entire spine stiffens.

"To leave your house to your _children-"_ Nick's looking directly at him over his glasses now, that calm, polite smile still in place. Ed's teeth grind together until he thinks his jaw might snap.

"That too _avoids tax?"_

Robinson smiles. Fucking _smiles._

"OK-"and Ed's voice is louder than he means it to be, because he can hear the words suddenly, over a year ago now, Cameron leaning over the dispatch box, smirk curling his mouth-

 _"Let me say to the honourable gentleman-"_ _Cameron had been leaning on the dispatch box with one elbow, that grin denting the slight chubbiness of his cheeks, making Ed, who'd sat down long ago, curl his fingers into his papers at the frustration of not being able to leap up, to ask more, to point out that Cameron didn't answer Ed's backbenchers any more than he answers Ed-_

_"I will pay all of the taxes that I'm meant to-" Cameron's eyes had almost flickered to Ed's, but not quite._

_"But let me just point out-" Cameron's grin flickered into life at the roar from the benches behind Ed. "One small point-"_

_Ed hadn't been able to take his eyes off Cameron's finger in the air. It was so irritating. God, he just wanted to grab it and-_

_"Let me just point out one small point-" Cameron had been taking his time, sorting through his folders, and Ed's gaze had burnt into his forehead, even as he rolled his eyes, because get on with it, for God's sake-_

_"I had a letter this week-" Cameron had looked up, away from Ed, with a slight smile, which seems to deepen more at the outrage from Ed's backbenchers. "I had a letter this week-I thought people might enjoy-"_

_God, even the way he said enjoy, with that smooth, posh, bloody-_

_Cameron's head had lifted from reading his notes. "It's from Ed, who lives in Camden-"_

_Embarrassingly, it had taken Ed a moment to get it._

_Then he'd felt himself blush, furiously, even as the laughter bubbled up from the Tory benches, known that Cameron would see it too, and not been able to decide which of them he hated more._

_"And it says this-" Cameron had given him the most fleeting glance under his eyelashes. "I am a millionaire!"_

_Another glance up. Ed had seethed._

_"I live in a house worth £2million, which I got through a combination of inheritance and property speculation-"_

_The chorus of "Aaahhs-" had risen around them, even as Ed had sat there, silently, fuming, staring at Cameron, wanting to just-get his hands-get his hands on him-grab him-_

_"I'm worried that if I sell my house and I buy another one-" Cameron had glanced up, affecting wide-eyed innocence. "I'll have to pay the 7% stamp duty that the wicked Tories have introduced!"_

_Cameron had nearly given himself away at the end, nearly slid into a cackle. Ed had nearly thrown his papers at him, especially as he'd heard the laughter spreading out around the Commons, even some ripples of it coming from his own side._

_"Under Labour, while we talked about fairness, we never made the rich pay more-" Cameron had leant forward over the dispatch box, eyes fixed on Ed's for the briefest of seconds. "What should a champagne socialist like me do?"_

_The cheers had crashed into the air, deafening, as Cameron had sat back down, with that smug little twitch of a smirk. As though the whole thing had just been a joke, some casual little line, that he'd already forgotten about._

_Ed had sat there, eyes fixed on him, hands folded in his lap, while Cameron hadn't looked anywhere near him, and he'd taken in Cameron's smooth skin and just-so styled posh hair and those sharp, blue eyes, glinting with mischief and he'd thought, I hate you. I hate you._

Fucking _Cameron._

"Let me-er-let me deal with those-er-questions-in, er-in order-"

His fingers are trembling.

"And I'm going to take my-time about dealing with them-"

_You bloody-_

"On your first point, I just want to make this point about-er-a- _about_ Lord Fink-"

Ed takes a deep, calming breath.

"Because I think it _is_ a very important moment, this-"

Because it's not _fair_ , it's _not, Cameron's_ the one in the wrong here, and yet he's got _everyone, everyone_ fucking, fucking, fucking _lining up-_

"Lord Fink, yesterday- was threatening to _sue_ me, right-"Anger spikes the words sharper. "Because I'd said he was engaging in tax avoidance. And there was much outrage from the Conservative Party."

And Cameron's going to bloody get away with this, because people don't know about this and they _should,_ they-

"I think this is-"

Cameron's blue eyes, that smug smirk-

"-a _defining moment_ in David Cameron's leadership of the Conservative Party-"

Cameron's tongue touching his, that first shock of wet, hot contact-

A tickling jolt runs through Ed.

"Because he now-it is now revealed that he _appointed_ a Treasurer-to lead- to, to be the Treasurer of the Conservative Party-"

_And he kissed me, he put his arms around me, and he fucking kissed me, and now he won't get out of my fucking head._

"-who says everyone engages in tax avoidance. Now, I don't think that is the view of most people. I-I don't think that's the view of the country-and I think it _does_ say something about the Conservative Party a-and where it has reached-"

He looks round at the audience, most of whom are nodding away fiercely, and then suddenly yesterday's tilting his thoughts again, into the plunge of _Jesus, what would they say if they saw-_

If they could open up Ed's mind now, if they could see what he's playing over and over, in HD precision, each press of Cameron's fucking _mouth-_

"A-and I think the question for today is David Cameron-"

He bites the name out as quickly as possible, desperate to drag his thoughts back from _did he linger, did his voice linger over Cameron's name-_

"-has to answer-does he _agree_ with Lord Fink a-about this-does he _sanction_ his attitude or does he not?"

_He kissed me, and he's dragged my thoughts out of my fucking head._

"E-let me deal with your-the two other points, er, that you make-"

He can hear whispering.

It's OK. It's OK. That always happens.

Oh God, can people see it on him, can they see it on his face, beaming out of him with each thump of his heart-

_I put my arms around David Cameron and I kissed him. I kissed him twice and he kissed me back, and I had my tongue in his fucking mouth. And I didn't hate it._

"Er-the first question is about John Mills-" Just stick to his notes. Stick to his notes. Just get through this.

He can panic about Cameron later. He can think about Cameron later. All of it later. Just this.

"He was-very clear on _Newsnight_ last night-"

Ed hadn't even remembered the name until a few moments ago, thanks to a note Tom or Stewart must have scribbled for him. What he did remember is that Cameron mentioned it.

"-that his donation to the Labour Party in shares was not about avoiding er-tax-"

Though like Cameron's ever going to let that go now.

"Secondly, the deed of variation-" and Ed's stomach clenches painfully.

"Er- _issue_ -ah-"

He can still remember clattering down the stairs, hammering at David and Louise's door, jiggling impatiently from foot to foot, pushing his glasses up his nose to keep them from falling off, until the door opened and his brother's face appeared, and Ed had blurted out, almost before either of them could take a breath "Could I use your-"

"Fax-" and they'd both finish the sentence without even needing to answer.

Ed tries not to wince at the pang it sends through him.

"Something, ah, you probably know-directed at me personally, because of something that my mother did-er-twenty years ago-"

And this was _Mum_ who did it, it was Mum, and it was _nothing to do with him._

"That was a decision _she_ made-"

"Class war thing, though" Lucy had opined, the other day. "Can we really go on about Cameron's school when he didn't decide on it?"

"Let me just say this-I paid tax o-as a result, er-of that transaction-I've avoided _no_ tax-er-in that-"

But that's different. Eton. Eton means Cameron can't relate to people the same way.

Even if he didn't choose to go there-

But then-but then Tristram went to-

It's not the same.

"-er-in that-and no doubt the Conservative Party wants to smear _mud-_ er-today-"

His voice is louder, and he can feel Cameron's cheek pressing into his shoulder on that train, hear his voice, that photograph delicate between his fingers on that duvet-

"But frankly, it's not gonna work-this story's been written _before-"_

It doesn't matter, as he tries to shove away Cameron's little-boy face peering out from that photo, because he can't be the same smug, arrogant,-

"And I've paid tax on that money" he says, and even amongst the small round of applause, he grits his teeth, because Cameron has bloody messed with his head, that's the only explanation for this, that's the only-the only bloody-

_He kissed me._

Oh, Jesus.

But Robinson's calling out something-"Can you just address that-" and Ed fumbles out "Oh, yeah-", because then there's that, there's that-

"A-and look, on _dodgy-_ I was very clear about what I said about Lord Fink-"

Please be asking about him. Please.

"The thing he objected to-just be _clear_ about this-until his extraordinary U-turn-24 hours later-the thing he _objected_ to-was me saying that he was engaging in tax avoiding activities-"

Please don't ask me about-

"I used a general comment about _dodgy donors_ in the Conservative Party-" This is what he's gone over with Tom, presumably on the advice of the lawyers Tom must have spent half the morning on the phone to. "And I totally stand by that comment-"

Now, for the important bit.

"I'm _not saying it_ about _Lord Fink-"_

("There" Tom had muttered. "That should get the fucking legal vultures off our backs.")

"But let me just tell you-about do-donors to the Conservative Party-"

Ed's speaking a little too quickly, because he's got to get to the end, to the end before Robinson says something else, something about _And what about your other comments in the House Of Commons yesterday, Mr Miliband-_

"There are _several questionable donors_ to the Tory party-one donor had to leave the House Of Lords after breaking his promise to bring his tax affairs onshore-"

_Do you think the Prime Minister is dodgy, Ed Miliband? Did you tell him that to his face yesterday, Ed Miliband?_

"And the firm owned by another donor was fined for involvement in the Libor rigging scandal-"

_Did you talk to him about it in private, Ed Miliband? Not with a dispatch box and a chamber and a hundred braying MPs to keep you apart, did you talk about it face-to-face? Were you standing up against him, so close you could feel him breathing, practically feel his heartbeat? Were you close enough that if you did reach up, you could, you could-_

"I-I think, personally, that's pretty dodgy." His voice is weak, but it gets the round of applause he needs, because Robinson's voice is quiet now, and Ed can only manage a strained push of his lips in place of a smile, because he can feel that moment again, Cameron's hand against his cheek, half-pushing into his hair, the way his lips just opened Ed's without even trying-

Oh, _fuck._

* * *

Ed shouldn't be seriously considering asking a bunch of teenagers for advice.

But the fact is, even sitting here around a table, opposite Tristram, with a bunch of Year 12s and 13s, Ed, along with trying not to remember exactly how the chairs dig into your thighs and the sensation of someone jabbing a pencil into your shoulder blade, twisting the nib hard enough that it would leave a bruise that wouldn't fade for days, finds himself thinking, over and over, _Oh God, oh God._

It had felt vaguely unreal last night. After he'd sunk down against his office door for God knows how long, he'd eventually managed to pull himself up, go to his desk, and try to clear his head of anything but the upcoming meeting. Which he'd done by focusing on numbers, pulling each one carefully out of the document in front of him, and poring over it, craving the solidity of it, like finally finding firm ground under his feet after dropping out of a plane.

That's how he'd do it, he'd told himself firmly. From now on, he would just focus on the piece of work in front of him and the one after that and the next one after that, until, until-

He'd deal with that later. He'd deal with it all later.

He'd managed to call Torsten and Greg in after his already scheduled meetings, and then when Fink had started talking about threatening legal action, it had almost been a bonus because, for God's sake, at least that way there wasn't time to dwell on-

He'd managed to stay in the office until 9, subsisting on food from Portcullis House, where he'd avoided venturing for as long as possible for fear of-and he _wasn't thinking about that._

When he'd eventually got home, everyone else was in bed, and his eyes had been aching, and he'd managed to fall into some kind of sleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow in the spare room, but every time he'd woken up, he'd felt the plunge in his stomach again, that moment of _Oh God, oh God, what-_ before he could remind himself that-that he can't-

"And are you all going to go to university-" he says, now, looking round the group of solemn young faces gathered around him. "What's your plans-"

There are a chorus of nods and _yeahs._ Ed isn't surprised.

The kids have been quiet and attentive and they've laughed politely at his jokes. And they've been chosen for exactly that reason-even Ed can tell these aren't the type of kids who have ever been drunk, stumbling around the city, giggling into a friend's shoulder at 4am. They're not even the types who'd get invited to a terrible house party with the host's parents upstairs on a Saturday night. (Well. Maybe a couple of them.)

Even Ed can tell that. He can also tell that, if this had been the '80s, he might have been one of them.

"To study Economics at LSE" one of the boys says, and excitement flares in Ed's chest before he can stop himself, one hand slapping itself on the table. _"Economics?!"_

He feels himself blush painfully. The kids are kind enough not to laugh. The girl sitting next to him with long, dark hair and big, doe-like eyes, gives him a fleeting sympathetic look, almost like a pat on the arm.

The boy doesn't react much, mercifully.

"Are you in s-second year of sth-ixth?" Ed manages, cursing himself, one hand still a little wild.

"No, no" says the boy very quietly, his eyes holding Ed's respectfully. "AS."

"AS-"

"Hmmm-"

"He's got it worked out, this young man-" At Tristram's joke, and the slightly nervous laughter from the other kids, the boy smiles a little, but his cheeks darken slightly, and watching, Ed has another jolt of realisation of how polite they're all so careful to be.

"So he'll have-zero problems-"

Ed wonders how many kids from Haverstock get to somewhere like LSE.

Maybe less than the number they've managed to acquire for this room.

(And he can't help but glance at Tristram too, because Tristram's got a touch of it, that public-school charm-not the way Cameron has, no-one's got it the way bloody Cameron has-and wonder what it would be like, to be able to just _say_ things like that-)

"So you-do you-are you really good at maths?" Ed wants to cringe the moment he's said the words.

"Erm-" The boy shakes his head slightly. "I would say so, but-" He laughs, along with the others, and something about the sheer politeness of his manner-the odd maturity of him, self-contained and quiet-rings of someone used to having to fight to carve out his own place in the world.

Ed wonders how many kids from Eton he'll find at LSE.

But, even as he asks more about the boy's subject choices and the other's uni choices, Ed's thought the word _Eton,_ which makes him remember that first glimpse of Cameron at Oxford, pulling that girl's mouth to his-

Ed has never liked doing that.

It's not as though he hasn't known that. Before now.

But-thinking about it-

Even when Ed was the age of the kids seated around him now-

It just-it just didn't cross his mind-

It _doesn't_ cross his mind.

Except for-

Sure, he'd been aware of the usual changes and urges and general irritations-

Bu that's what they were. Irritations.

Ed just never really-

Kissing is just a movement of mouths. That's it. He's never got why everyone makes such a big deal about it.

It doesn't have to be unpleasant-sometimes it is-but-

But yesterday-

Yesterday.

Ed's cheeks flame just thinking about it.

He concentrates far too hard on the girl on his other side, talking quietly, eyes looking up at him, made bigger by her hijab framing her face-"Erm, so, I've applied to Queen Mary's to study Creative Writing-"

But the thought's there now, making his cheeks burn, his heart pound, his fingers fumble frantically.

Yesterday didn't just feel like mouths moving together.

Not at all.

It felt like-

It felt like-

_If he did it again-if he did it again-I think I'd-I think I'd-_

Oh God.

* * *

Oh God.

David thinks those words very specifically when he notices the folders lying on top of the piles of papers-Gavin must have carefully sorted them out while David had been hyperventilating in the flat with Sam yesterday afternoon.

And lying right on the top in exactly the right place to stare up at him accusingly is Miliband's PMQs folder.

_Fuck._

Of course. Miliband threw it down in that armchair when he first walked in right before he-right before they-

And he's left it.

Because he ran-

Oh God-

David can easily send a message to one of Miliband's aides to come and get it.

Gavin could probably hand it over.

David doesn't need to be involved.

They've got that meeting with Bercow in an hour. Just get through that, and then he-

He and Miliband can just-

Stay away from each other. Permanently, if necessary.

They'll get the elections out of the way and they'll be off round the country campaigning and they-

They won't need to ever speak to each other again after that. There's nothing that can't be said through aides.

They can never talk to each other again, if they don't want to.

David stares at the folder. His fingers drum on his desk.

So there's no reason for him to take Miliband's folder with him today.

No reason at all.

* * *

David can't believe he brought the bloody folder.

He's far, far too aware of it, as though it's about to crawl out of the briefcase and lie there on the carpet, staring up at them both accusingly.

Though he'd rather focus on that than Bercow.

"I mean, what on _earth-"_ Bercow puffs himself up, as though that might inflate him to reach a few more inches in height. "Were either of you _thinking?_ Really, it was _disgraceful."_

David usually finds Bercow irritating-so much so that right now, he's pretty sure Bercow wouldn't be happy to know David's thinking _God, I can't believe I ever partnered you in tennis._

So it says something that today he's actually trying to focus very, very hard on listening to every word Bercow says.

And not on the man standing a few inches away from him.

They're standing here like two schoolboys, David tries to think furiously, instead of noticing how many inches there are between his and Miliband's arms, and that jut of Miliband's nose just out of the corner of David's eyes-

Ed Miliband was already in here when David arrived, and he hasn't turned to look at him once.

"There could have been _schoolchildren_ visiting-" Bercow shakes his head, stretching himself up to his fullest height. He still barely comes up to David's chest. "It was a _complete_ disgrace."

David's rationing himself little glances. Every few words, as a reward for not asking Bercow if he's not rather abandoning his old role model from the Seven Dwarves yet, David allows himself the tiniest flicker of a glance at Miliband.

He gets a glimpse of Miliband's dark eyes, the shadows a little darker than usual under them.

His cheeks a little paler too.

His teeth digging into his lip.

The long fingers folding and unfolding themselves.

Back to his lips.

His lips.

David's touched them.

He's-

God, he's more than _touched_ them-

David yanks his gaze away before Miliband can look back. Though Miliband hasn't deigned to look at him once since he walked through the door.

"Now, is there anything either of you would like to say?" Bercow asks, walking round the desk and leaning back against it, so that he has to peer up at them. David fights down a snigger. "To explain what happened yesterday?"

Bercow stretches up to his full height. David arches an eyebrow ever so slightly, and then, very slowly, does the same thing, making the height difference between them even more noticeable.

He feels something-almost a slightly intake of breath at his side. A smile, if you could feel a smile.

He glances at Miliband. Miliband stares at his shoes as if he's never seen anything more fascinating in his entire life.

David glances back at Bercow, arches an eyebrow again. "I don't think so" he says, as carelessly as he can. "I'll see if I can _stretch-_ " He puts the slightest emphasis on the word. "For something."

Another slight movement from next to him. Bercow's eyes narrow.

"Ed?" Bercow rarely uses David's name, which is fine by David. He's noticed he uses Miliband's name a little more often, though.

David has to fight not to turn to look at him. Carefully, he keeps his gaze averted.

"No."

David feels himself jump very slightly, and then realises it's the first time since yesterday he's heard Miliband's voice. Thinking about it, Miliband hasn't spoken since David entered the room.

Bercow swells indignantly, like some irritated pelican. "Well, all I can say is that there can't be any repeat of yesterday." He jerks his chin up self-righteously. "Need I remind you, you are both in positions where you are expected to set an example."

David takes his time with what he says next. "Yes" he says slowly. "It would be a shame when so many people-"

He lets his eyes travel up and down Bercow's decidedly short frame very slowly.

"Look _up_ to us." He stresses the word very slightly, letting a small smile curl at his own lips.

Bercow's eyes flash. There's a muffled movement from next to David. This time, David's ready, and he glances over in time to see Miliband's teeth hastily pulling at a corner of his lip, biting back what could be a grin.

* * *

"I'm starting to think Claire's right about him" David says, almost rushing the words out as they round the corner into the corridor that leads out from the Speaker's Offices. "He's turning patronising into a bloody art form-pity neither of us are women-"

Miliband, who'd set off out of the office swiftly, legs almost entangling with each other in his haste, stops dead. His mouth drops open, working furiously as he stares at David.

"Don't look at me like that, Miliband" David says, as nonchalantly as he possibly can. "It was Claire who said it, not me."

David knows he sounds completely, utterly insane.

Miliband stares at him, jaw working silently. "I-I- _you-"_

But, if he's honest with himself, heart pounding hard enough to leave him feeling vaguely sick in the pit of his stomach, David has no idea what else to do.

And if there's one thing he can count on Miliband for, any day of the week, rain or shine, or I-just-kissed-you-or-you-just-kissed-me-what-the-hell-are-we-doing-it's an argument.

"Are you for-" Miliband stares at him, mouth gaping, dark eyes huge. His cheeks, far from being pale now, are flushed, darker by the moment. David feels something jump in his chest as he watches him, fascinated.

"Are you _theriouth?"_ Miliband finally bursts out, eyes bulging, hands gesticulating as though his arms are about to fall off. It's like how he is at the best PMQs, which makes it even harder to concentrate. "Are y-are you theriouthly-after-a-after-"

His mouth fastens tightly shut. Deep red is flooding up his cheeks, creeping across his forehead.

David stares back at him, trying to ignore the heat he can feel in his own cheeks. "What? After we-?"

Say it, part of his brain screams. Just say it.

He goes to take a step closer to Miliband. Then pulls himself back.

God, what's he _doing?_ Yesterday he was planning to hide in the bedroom and see if he could possibly run the country from _there_ for the rest of his life.

When did he start-

When-

But then he-

There was that leap in his chest when he saw Ed again.

Miliband. Ed. Miliband.

But-

It's more than that.

God, he could kick himself. Or Miliband. Or both of them.

Miliband stares at him, then makes another, disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. "You-you just-" He stares at David for barely a second, but there's something else in his eyes. Something softer, more flinching, as he turns away.

David can hear George's voice in his head.

He watches Miliband stalk away for several paces before he calls out, softly enough that his security, waiting round the corner, won't hear, but that Miliband undoubtedly will, "You kissed me first."

Miliband stops dead. David actually sees him judder to a halt.

David smiles very slightly.

Miliband turns round and almost stamps back towards him, storming down the corridor, brows pulling together so hard it must hurt, dark eyes blazing underneath, and David feels that _plunge_ in his stomach again that leaves him breathless, but then Miliband's right in front of him, chest heaving rapidly, rising and falling.

"Don't you _dare-"_ Miliband almost spits the words out, jaw clenched so tight he must be forcing them through gritted teeth. "Th-say that-"

David raises an eyebrow, keeps his face carefully free of expression, the way he knows winds Miliband up even tighter.

This is how they _work._

"Careful, Miliband. Don't want people to think you're a _little_ bit homophobic, now."

Miliband swells. Actually _swells._ " _You-"_

David raises an eyebrow, his own heart pounding so loudly he's sure Miliband must be able to hear it. "What?" he asks, deliberately making the question a little too polite. "I presumed that must be your objection."

 _"You-"_ Miliband lowers his voice to a furious hiss. "You know _very well_ that that wathn't my _objection!"_

David arches an eyebrow again, trying to look as sure as he can, while inwardly tumbling, hands out frantically, grabbing for a branch of what the hell to say next.

Miliband's blush deepens even more. "Not my _only_ objection" he rectifies, still in that same hiss.

David stares at him, taking in those big dark eyes, the jut of his cheekbone. The way Miliband's lip is trembling ever so slightly.

"Miliband" he hears himself say, much more quietly now, and then his hand falls onto Miliband's wrist.

Miliband sucks in his breath, his eyes widening. For a moment, he and David stare at each other. David can feel his own heart beating fast, the tip of his finger brushing Miliband's bare wrist, aware of the heat of his skin through his suit and his shirtsleeve.

Then Miliband rips his hand away from David as though he's burnt him.

David almost stumbles himself. "Jesus-"

Miliband's shoulders are rising and falling, his dark eyes darting anywhere but at David, and they finally fix themselves on the carpet somewhere to David's left, as he says in a very low voice, "Don't touch me."

David feels like he's been punched.

Miliband's eyes flicker to David's face at almost exactly the same moment he says it, his mouth opening and closing almost before the words are out. "I-"

David swallows, lets both his hands lift, fingers open. "Fine" is all he manages, the word oddly swollen in his throat.

"I-" Miliband stares at him, and then almost takes a step towards him. "I didn't mean that-the way it th-sounded."

He stares at David, something softening very slightly in his eyes. "I-"

David shrugs. "I know" he says, his throat tightening very slightly around the words. "It's fine."

Miliband opens his mouth suddenly, then closes it again, taking a deep breath.

"We need to talk." David says it before Miliband can interrupt. "About-"

Miliband stares at him again. "Tal-what ith there-" He almost laughs. "What the hell ith there to talk _about?"_

David just stares at him. Miliband, impossibly, blushes even more and looks away. A short, heavy silence falls between them.

"Not here" David says, more quietly now. "We can-we can go-"

He waves a hand vaguely, but Miliband almost flinches.

"I-" He shakes his head, taking a step back. "I can't."

But David sees that same softening in his eyes again, as his brow furrows and he shakes his head.

"Fine." He himself takes a step back, knowing instinctively that doing the same thing will make Miliband change course immediately. "Fine. I've still got your PMQs folder, by the way."

He turns around, forces himself to stroll slowly down the corridor in the opposite direction, whistling softly to himself.

A few startled seconds pass, before, behind him, there is an indignant, nasal squawk of _"What?!"_

David grins.

He whips the folder out, turning back to face Miliband, holding it up in the air. He grins, slides it back into his suit long before Miliband can reach him, ambles more slowly, even as Miliband grabs at thin air, almost jumping on the spot. "Give me that!"

"Happily. But I need to talk to you."

 _"You-"_ Miliband swells indignantly. Something squeezes fondly in David's chest at the sight, and then he wants to shake himself.

"Thith ith-hath to be-" Miliband glowers at him, almost trembling with indignation. "If I _told_ anyone about _thith-"_

David arches an eyebrow. "What, and you'd tell them _why_?"

Miliband blushes again, but it's the flinch in his eyes that makes David wince.

"Tho what-" Miliband's voice is a little shakier now, as though he's trying to catch his breath or maybe trying not to cry. "What, you're-you're trying to _blackmail_ me-"

David feels something squeeze much harder in his chest. "No" he says, much more quietly. "Of course not."

Miliband stares at him.

"Is that really what you think I'd do?" David asks the question before he can stop himself.

Miliband blinks, stares at him. "I-"

David shakes his head. "Forget it." He pulls the folder out of his suit, holds it out. "There. You can have it back. You don't have to speak to me. I just wanted-" He shakes his head, dismissing the rest of the sentence out of hand. "We can just pretend it never bloody happened." The words seem to stick in his throat.

He can't look at Miliband, but he catches the slight widening of the eyes. "No, I-"

He shakes his head again, reaches forward. David goes to step out of reach, holding out the folder, but Miliband's hand falls, takes his wrist, his hand.

They both freeze, staring at each other. Miliband's hand is warm around David's, his long fingers gently wrapping around David's wrist.

Miliband stares at their joined hands as if not sure whether or not one belongs to him. "I-"

David's heart thumps away in his chest, but he doesn't move his hand away. Instead, he lets his other hand move, up to Miliband's face, almost touching him but not quite, his gaze moving restlessly over those shadows, his soft mouth, his big, dark eyes.

"Please, Miliband." His voice is very soft.

Miliband's lips part very slightly. His dark eyes hold David's own, both of their breathing suddenly deepening, quickening.

When Miliband lets go of his hand, David waits, heart ready to scramble out of his chest, breath almost held.

Miliband doesn't say anything. But he stands still, staring at David for another long moment, and when David takes a tentative step, then another, Miliband falls into pace alongside him, without even asking where they're going.

* * *

George tilts his head back against the wall. "Balls" he says, slowly, patiently. "For once in your life, _shut up."_

Balls snorts. "Just saying. Always knew it, Osborne."

"Please tell me, what did you _always know?"_

"Fucking hell, you sounded like Peter." Balls stretches, hands behind his head. Then he freezes, eyes flying wide open. "Wait, he hasn't brought you here, has he?"

George sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I come in here to _relax,_ Balls."

"That isn't an answer."

George sighs. "If these are the sorts of ideas you have about this place, then why did you agree to come in with me?"

Balls snorts. "I didn't _want_ to come in with you. I just wanted to come in."

"When I was here, conveniently."

"Look, since the House Of Commons has a fucking sauna, it would be a waste of fucking resources not to use it."

"All you've done is whine about the towels."

"Well, how the hell was _I_ supposed to know I couldn't wear _clothes?!"_

"Balls, have you ever _heard_ of a sauna before?"

"No, I didn't have Peter talking me into them."

"And I thought Labour was supposed to be the land of the open-minded and metropolitan."

"Oh, piss off."

There's a slightly huffy silence.

"Anyway, I _thought_ we were meant to be discussing your bloody best friend."

"And I thought you were too busy throwing him against walls."

"Oh, for God's sake, don't be so fucking dramatic."

"It was _quite_ dramatic" George remarks, tilting his head back. His leg touches Balls'. Balls jumps like he's been shot. "And so's that."

"Jesus, we weren't all at fucking boarding school, Osborne-"

"That includes me" George tells him, without opening his eyes. "Actually."

"Oh, stop being so bloody pedantic-I thought you wanted to talk about Cameron and Milipede, not hang out here half-naked-"

"Not as bohemian as I thought you'd be."

"Bohemian? _Bohemian?_ Now sitting around half-naked with a towel over your cock is _bohemian_ , is it?"

"Oh, calm down. Get a bit of class." George opens his eyes, inwardly grinning at the rebuttal he's already expecting, and promptly screams.

Balls leaps up, towel flapping wildly at his waist. His arms fly out, sending his elbow flying into George's jaw.

_"Ow!"_

"Fucking _hell_ , Osborne-"

George claps a hand over his jaw, almost buckling forward, his cheeks flushing furiously, as he stares at the man now sitting calmly across the room from him, lounging back against his own seat, gathering his towel around his own waist with the air of one who's done this many times before.

Nick Clegg, eyeing them amusedly through half-closed eyes, grins lazily at them both. "I don't usually get that reaction, I have to say."

* * *

" _The Member'th Cloakroom?"_ Ed spins round to stare at Cameron disbelievingly. "You want to talk about-about-"

His cheeks burn traitorously.

"-in _here?"_ he eventually hisses, folding his arms tightly over his chest, glowering at Cameron as though that alone can-

-can-

Oh God.

Cameron arches an eyebrow. "I thought perhaps we should avoid my office after yesterday."

Ed spins round and heads for the door.

"Ed. Ed. _Ed-"_ and maybe it's that that makes Ed stop, not Cameron getting to the door first. "Ed, we need to speak about this-"

 _"Why?"_ The word is torn from Ed's throat in a strangled whisper. "It happened! We can't change it! Why don't we just do-do-whatever it fucking takes to never fucking _mention_ it again-"

"Because you wanted to."

Ed's jaw actually drops.

He just stares at Cameron, scrabbling for words, his heart trying to scramble out of his chest.

Cameron stares back at him, his own chest rising and falling a little, too. "You kissed me first."

And Ed thinks his chest is going to explode, and-

"I did _not-"_ and he's hissing it furiously, his heart hammering hard enough to almost hurt, and he's standing right in front of Cameron now, almost nose to nose with him. "I did n- _stop_ _th-saying that."_

Cameron's eyebrow creeps up again. "Like I said. Wouldn't have pegged you for a homophobe, Miliband."

This time, Ed actually does almost explode.

 _"What?"_ He half-spits the word into Cameron's face, his voice teetering dangerously close to a shrieked whisper. _"What? What?_ You actually think-you actually think _I-_ you actually think _that'th the reason-that'th_ the-"

Cameron just stares at him. Ed throws up his hands, half-pushes past him.

"I'm not _leaving_ " he half-snarls at Cameron, who looks as though he's about to try to move to stop him. "I'm sitting _there."_

He takes a seat on one of the benches, then immediately stands up again, batting at the purple silk thing that's brushing his cheek. "What the _hell_ ith _that?!"_

"Oh, that's where to hang our swords" says Cameron, as though he carries one on his person.

(Ed really doesn't need to be thinking about Cameron's _person_ right now.)

" _What?"_

"From the olden-same reason we have to be a sword's length apart in the Commons. Back when MPs would bring their swords into Parliament, this is where we'd hang them."

Ed stares at the silk, shaking his head in wordless disbelief.

Cameron winks. "Surprised at an Etonian knowing more history than you, Miliband?"

Ed stares at him. Then looks away, feeling his cheeks flame at that cocky grin, at the answering, not unpleasant swoop in his own stomach.

"I didn't kiss you firthst." He almost whispers it. And then he looks away.

_I can't have._

There's a short silence.

"Well-" Cameron's voice is uneasy. Ed blinks at the sheer weirdness of it.

"Even if you didn't-" Cameron's voice wavers but he doesn't look away from Ed. "You kissed me back."

Ed's head jerks up, outrage sharpening in his chest. "I-"

He stares at Cameron, open-mouthed, scrambling for words. "I-I-"

I can't have.

_I can't have._

Why can't he just s _ay it?_

"I was-th-surprised!" he manages, weakly.

"Surprised?" A faint flicker of amusement crosses Cameron's face. "So, what-does surprise _often_ compel you to thrust your tongue down my throat, is that it?"

Ed throws himself upright and heads to the door. This time, Cameron gets there first.

"No, no, please, wait, I'm sorry-"

His hand's on Ed's sleeve. "I was-Miliband, it was a joke-"

It's not that that brings Ed to a halt. It's not Cameron's hand on his wrist either.

"Did-" He's staring at Cameron. "You just th-said _please."_

Colour creeps into Cameron's cheeks.

Ed doesn't say anything. But slowly, he steps away from the door.

Cameron swallows. "I just-" His voice is much softer, now. "I don't think it was just surprise, Miliband."

He waits, eyeing Ed cautiously, as though waiting to see whether Ed's going to rip his hand away from his own, and head for the door anyway.

When Ed doesn't, Cameron relaxes. Ed feels it, his fingers loosening around Ed's hand, which he's still holding.

Ed pulls it back before he can stop himself.

Cameron doesn't try to stop him again. Instead, he just stares at Ed for a moment, then looks away suddenly, with a grimace, as though it pains him.

"I-" Ed starts, with no idea what he wants to say next.

"Would you please stop doing that?" Cameron's voice is tighter, quieter than usual, almost a whisper.. His eyes flicker away as Ed's try to catch them.

"Do what?"

It takes a moment for Cameron to answer, and when he does, his voice is quieter than ever. His eyes almost move to Ed's, but flicker away. "Acting like I've done something awful to you."

A muscle in Cameron's jaw twitches slightly. Something contracts in Ed's chest.

"I-"

He swallows.

"I-didn't mean to....do that" he says, quietly.

Cameron doesn't look at him, but his jaw loosens very slightly.

It takes a moment, but Cameron slowly sits down at the other end of the bench, not looking at Ed. Ed stands there for several moments, but it feels oddly awkward looking down at Cameron, so Ed takes a seat at the other end of the bench.

A minute or so passes in silence, with neither of them looking at the other.

"It's just-" Cameron's looking at his knees. "I don't know why it would be so bad if you were the one to kiss me."

His voice is almost a whisper.

Ed's head jerks up. "Because-"

He falls silent.

_Because you have to have been the one. Because I would never have kissed you. Because if you kissed me, it could have been a trick or a dare or a technique or, or-_

_And if I-_

"I mean-" Cameron shifts uncomfortably, in the little glimpse Ed sneaks out of the corner of his eye. "Are-are you-"

"What?"

"Gay?" Cameron seems to bite the word out almost defiantly. "Bisexual?"

Ed stares at him. "What? No!" He shakes his head, realising almost immediately how it sounds. "I mean-no."

Because he's not. He's never-he's never _thought_ about-

"So you're straight."

Ed opens his mouth, ready to affirm this, and then pauses.

He shouldn't need to pause. He's only ever been out with women. For fuck's sake, he's _married_ to a woman.

But he's-he's never thought about-even with being married, he's never-never really-

But he's never wanted to go out-thought about being-with _men,_ either-

"I-yeah."

The word hovers weakly in the air, almost like a question. Cameron opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Perhaps it's that-Cameron _not_ asking anything-that makes Ed say "I've jutht-never really liked. Kissing. Anyone."

Wait.

What in God's name-

Why is he telling _Cameron?_

* * *

David frowns, glances at him. "You-don't like kissing?"

Miliband presses his lips together very tightly.

"But-I mean-" David's not stupid, but-"You're. You know. Married."

"I know _that."_ Miliband does a strange, odd jump, and wraps his arms tighter around himself.

"So-" David frowns, trying to puzzle him out a little. "So-you-just-you must-you just don't-like-that side of things-?"

Miliband shakes his head abruptly. "Forget it. I don't want to talk about it." His mouth shuts just as abruptly."

David watches him very quietly, and then he hears himself ask, in a nervous, halting voice quite unlike his own, "Did you like kissing me?"

Miliband goes very still. David can feel it, even several inches away, feel that stillness, prickling at his own skin, a roaring in his blood. He suddenly can't bear to look at him. He stares away, at the ceiling, at the floor, his palms suddenly damp, his heart beating almost painfully fast against his ribs, his stomach dropping, his mind a sudden riot of _Please don't answer, please don't not answer, pleasepleaseplease-_

Miliband lets out a little, desperate, gasping sound, and almost scrambles upright, and then David's up too, and he's saying "Please, please, don't-"

Miliband stops, face angled away from him. David tries to take a slightly deeper breath, the room seeming to tilt slightly, tells himself to calm down, to-

"I must have been politer to you today than I have been in our last 3 PMQs" he manages from somewhere, voice almost painfully lighter.

It's pathetic and he knows it, but maybe that's what makes Miliband turn round, stare at him.

"Cameron" Ed says, very softly, and for a moment, David's eyes want to close, want to take in that-just how soft his voice is.

They look at each other and look at each other, and that softness is touching Miliband's eyes too, leaving a slow, melting sensation in David's chest.

Maybe it's that, but David hears his own voice again, soft, hovering nervously, confused and wavering, almost a whisper, but-"I liked kissing you."

Miliband's head jerks sharply. His eyes have widened, his lips parting slightly. David's eyes drop to them helplessly, and then his own eyes are measuring the distance between them before his gaze finds Miliband's again, sinking into that slow, drowning feeling in his chest.

The door opens.

* * *

"What the _hell?"_ Balls barks, gathering his towel protectively around himself. "What the-how did you-"

Nick arches an eyebrow laconically, apparently enjoying the sight of Balls now frantically scrambling to extend his towel as far as possible. "Oh, stop worrying, I've seen it all before."

"Not of _me"_ Balls hisses furiously, casting panicked glances about. George has to admit, regretfully, that for once, he might be forced to agree.

"And what the hell do you mean-" Balls' gaze darts up suspiciously. "You've _seen it all before?"_

Nick winks. "I was a ski instructor, remember?"

George and Balls exchange a long look.

Nick rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, not like _that._ There were _saunas."_

He stretches out, apparently far too comfortable with the shortness of his towel. "Anyway, Dave and Miliband."

"Sorry-" Balls holds up a hand. "Sorry-there is _no way_ I can sit in this room with you in _that."_ His hand flaps frantically.

Nick grins. "Would you prefer me to take it off?"

"OK." George holds up a hand. "OK-first, nobody _touch_ these fucking towels- _yes,_ I know how it sounded _, shut up-you're_ the one who can't get over the bloody towel-"

"Anyway" Nick continues contentedly, serenely ignoring the hysteria breaking out in front of him. "Dave and Miliband."

 _"Secondly-"_ George leans in, making sure to yank his towel very, very tightly as he does so. "How the _hell_ did you know what we were talking about?"

Nick snorts, leaning back, letting his eyes flicker closed. "Please. There's only one thing everyone _is_ talking about. It's a miracle the bloody journos haven't got hold of it."

George sighs, leaning his head back. "Do you have any thoughts?" he asks, debating whether or not to nudge Balls to remind him that Nick hasn't been privy to their previous conversation, or whether, given their current situation, this might be all that is required to send Balls into some sort of aneurysm.

"God knows. Whole thing looked like Romeo and Juliet after he kills Mercutio."

Balls makes a spluttering sound. George smacks him. Nick's eyes fly open.

"Oh, come on, just because I said Romeo and Juliet?" Nick laughs, but the sound slowly dies away as his eyes flicker from one to the other. "Wait-"

George hastily tries to project an innocent, winning smile.

Nick shudders. "Don't do that, it's bloody terrifying."

George lets the smile slide away, replacing it with a more natural scowl.

Nick glances between the two of them. "What's going on?"

George opens his mouth, but comes up with absolutely nothing. Balls stares very hard in the other direction, as though a fascinating TV programme has started playing on the opposite wall.

"Wait-" Nick trails off, before his eyes widen as he leans forward. "Wait-you-oh my God-you two-?"

Nick gestures between them.

George blinks.

" _No!"_ His yelp makes Balls almost jump out of his seat, his eyes flying to George's. "What the-what-"

"He thinks we're-" George points at Nick, then between them. "We're-"

"What?"

_"Romeo and Juliet!"_

Balls' eyes bulge. He tries to speak, but makes only a slightly hysterical, muffled sound.

"OK." Nick holds up his hands. "OK, calm down, I was only-no need to kill you-"

"Not us, Jesus-Cameron and Mili-"

_"BALLS!"_

Balls yelps very loudly as George's foot connects with his toes.

"What?" Nick's staring at them both, wide-eyed. _"What?"_

George swears.

 _"What?"_ Nick's jaw drops. "You're saying seriously-David and _Miliband-"_

George, contemplating the quickest ways to commit murder in a sauna, turns to Balls with a furious hiss. _"_ Oh, _well done, Juliet."_

"Oh, how was _I_ supposed to know?"

"Cameron and Miliband-Cameron and _Miliband-_ are- _what-"_

"No, they're not-they're _not-"_

"He _just said-"_

"OK, _shhh, shhh-"_ George accomplishes this by shoving his finger against his lips, almost stumbling upright, one hand clutching his towel firmly to his waist. _"Shhh!"_

He sits down, watching as Nick presses his lips firmly together. There's a moment of protracted, tense silence, which is broken by Balls making a huffy sound. "Anyway, _you'd_ be fucking Juliet."

George throws up his hands. _"Oh, for fu-"_

"Nah" says a new voice, as the door swings open. "Ed would _definitely_ be Juliet."

Nick almost jumps out of his skin, Balls outright yells, and clutches his towel more tightly around him, and George does all three, with the added bonus of burying his face in his hands and wondering if he could possibly disappear.

"Oh, calm down." Yvette wraps her own towel more tightly around her as she walks in. "I've seen far worse than those." She slams the door shut as though to emphasise the point and takes a seat on the bench next to Nick. "Budge up."

There's a long moment of speechless, mortified silence.

Then, "That's you she's talking about."

"Oh, _shut up, Juliet."_

Ed nearly has a heart attack.

He spins round, almost automatically, taking several steps away from Cameron, even though they were nowhere near each other.

"Hugo-" Cameron's already saying, his voice only slightly less ruffled than usual. "But Ed can se the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hand jumps nervously to his hair. The slight movement makes something squeeze fondly in Ed's chest, and after a moment, he realises he's been standing there, head on one side, just gazing quietly at Cameron.

He yanks his gaze away hurriedly, busies himself with his phone for something, anything to do, Hugo and Cameron's conversation clattering in his ears.

"Sorry, old chap, didn't realise there was anyone in here, was looking for a snuff-box-Saffron'll be on at me if she finds out, she's right in the middle of revising for her A-Levels-"

"Oh, still at Cheltenham?"

"Yes, yes, and Siena-"

This conversation washes over Ed, the words rattling in his ears. Instead, he just stares at the back of Cameron's head, cheeks burning, four words a humming pulse under the back of his brain.

_I liked kissing you. I liked kissing you. I liked kissing you. I liked kissing-_

_Cameron liked kissing me._

Ed keeps waiting for something cold to grip at his chest at that thought.

But he can't stop fighting the insane grin that wants to push at his mouth, the leaping between his ribs.

_He liked kissing me. He liked-_

He can feel it again, Cameron's mouth, warm, soft, pushing into his, tongue touching his own-

It wasn't even like kissing.

It wasn't like any kissing Ed's ever done.

It was like their mouths just taking over.

Ed doesn't even remember thinking about it-thinking about why or how or which way to tilt his head, or how to make his mouth-

He just- _did_ it.

A bit like arguing with Cameron.

The way Ed can plan all his arguments out, get everything in order and ready, and then, and then, Cameron just-

"Ed?"

Ed blinks.

"Oh-I-um-" He glances at Cameron and Hugo, who are both looking at him with expressions that suggest this isn't the first time they've said his name.

"Oh-um-th-sorry, I wath-" Ed can feel himself blushing. "Um-um-what-"

"No matter" Hugo says, waving Ed's tongue-tied blushing away with a sweep of the hand in that Old Etonian way (though still not quite as dismissively as Cameron manages it.) "Just asking how you were, old chap. Anyway, didn't mean to intrude-" He gives them a wink, oblivious to the way Ed's frozen at the words. "No, no, not to worry-have to have a catch up sometime, Dave, a proper chinwag-haven't had your lot round to dinner in a while-"

Ed tries not to listen to Cameron's answer, because-even if he very carefully doesn't let himself think it-Cameron's voice won't do anything to make him any less distracted. Instead, he focuses his gaze on his phone screen while replaying that wink over and over and telling himself, trying not to shake, _he doesn't know, he doesn't know._

"Well, see you, old chap" and Ed manages to look up as the door swings shut behind Hugo.

Cameron turns back to him with a rueful grin, almost mischievous, which really doesn't help the matter of Ed not letting himself get distracted. "Ah-Hugo-just an old friend-"

"You liked it."

Ed could kick himself a second later, but the words are there, breathed out quietly, and Cameron's eyes widen, then soften.

"Um-"

His cheeks are getting pinker by the second. God, it looks good.

"Um. Yes. Didn't-didn't you-"

Ed feels himself blush almost painfully in silent response.

His eyes meet Cameron's, his lips parting slightly before he snaps his mouth shut and turns away, which they both know is as good an answer, anyway.

God. Ed almost laughs for a moment, then buries his face in his hands, dragging his fingers through his hiar.

 _God._ As if Hugo would ever have suspected it.

Nobody in their right _mind_ would ever suspect it, because nobody in their right mind would ever think that this was bloody _possible_.

"Oh God" he hears himself mutter, pressing his fingers into his forehead, aware of Cameron's footsteps crossing the room, his body weight sinking down next to Ed. Ed doesn't even want to wriggle away.

"Ed" Cameron says very softly. "E-Ed-"

That's what does it, Ed tells himself. That little trip over his name. Something stutters in Ed's chest, and he looks up at Cameron sharply.

Ed's knee touches Cameron's. This time, he doesn't pull away. He doesn't move closer, either. Just sits there, their knees pressed together, the heat of Cameron's body against his, sending his stomach into a strange swoop.

He doesn't look away, either. He just stares at Cameron, watches Cameron stare back, and thinks as hard as he can, and it takes a moment to realise that he's thinking, _please, please, please....._

* * *

David stares at him. Oh God. He can feel his heartbeat.

Ed's eyes are staring up at him with an imploring, _needing_ look-David can almost feel the _want_ pouring out of him, and his hands want to be, they want to be-

I could, he thinks suddenly, dangerously. Right now, I could.

I could lean in. I could tilt my mouth towards his, I could touch his lips with-

He has to look away, his cheeks burning.

"I-" He thinks he hears Ed say, with that little breath, and _oh_ _God, don't, don't say anything else, please, please..._

"We can't talk here" he says, his voice a little louder now, more determined. "It's too risky. We need to meet somewhere."

Miliband takes a moment to reply, but David can feel him watching him.

"What-why do we need to meet?"

His voice is faltering, small, and David lets his own eyes flicker shut, recognizing the words for what they are, a last failing grasp at the idea that this doesn't have to be anything at all.

"Miliband" he says, and he suddenly feels very, very tired by the whole thing, letting his head fall back against the wall. "This isn't going to go away." Sam's words of the night before echo faintly back to him.

There's a short silence, before he hears Miliband's voice, almost a whisper. "Why not?"

David keeps his eyes closed, the words hanging heavily between them, pulsing in time with each beat of his heart.

"Because we liked it" he says, and he can feel Miliband breathe next to him, feel his body heat, feel as though he could feel his heartbeat if he leant closer.

"I didn't th-say I liked it." Miliband's voice is less than a whisper this time.

"You didn't have to."

There's a moment's silence, during which David tries to concentrate on his breathing-in, out, in, out, don't panic, don't panic, it doesn't have to be-and not what he just said.

Then, "Well, why did you _bring_ me here?"

Miliband's voice is louder this time, snapping. David's eyes open to see Miliband staring at him, dark hair a mess, eyes almost a little wild. "Why-thith was _your_ idea-" He makes a sudden movement as if to get up, but then just stares at David all the harder. "Why did you even _bring_ me here?"

David stares at him, opening his mouth, searching for the answer that should be on the tip of his tongue.

And so he does the exact same thing he does when they're facing each other across the dispatch box, and he needs to find the exact figures for an answer in the Plastic Fantastic in front of him-he fires the question back. "Well, why did you _come?"_

Miliband does that roll of the eyes and that impatient little _"tuh"_ as he tosses his head slightly, the way he does every time David lobs a question back at him in the chamber, and David watches him, fondness aching almost painfully in his chest at the sight of the familiar gesture, and then the answer falls out of his mouth without him even having to reach for it.

"I wanted to see you" he says quietly, answering both of their questions at once.

* * *

Ed can't look at him. God, how's he meant to look at him?

God, what's _he_ doing here?

Cameron just answered that, a part of him goads himself.

He looks away, wraps his arms around himself as though it's colder than it is. "Where?" he tries to snap out, but his voice falters horribly. "Well, where would you go?"

Cameron's silent for a moment, before he says "Soon. And somewhere-private. Away from here."

Here could mean just the room or the House Of Commons, but to Ed, for a moment, the word shimmers before them, as though encompassing everything about their careers, from the suits they're wearing to the separate election manifestos that at this moment are being drafted by somebody working away in two offices in this same building.

Ed feels the word shiver in the air. He shivers too.

"As soon as possible" Cameron says, and partly so he doesn't have to meet Cameron's eyes yet, Ed says quickly "My-my house will be free. Tonight. You. You could come over."

His head jerks up as he hears his own words, his cheeks flaming so rapidly he's almost dizzy. "I mean! To talk! To-to-to talk-about-"

Cameron just nods, but his mouth twitches in that grin. Ed feels himself blush even more and fumes silently, tugging uncomfortably at his earlobe.

Cameron takes a moment before he asks "Have you told Justine?"

Something cold squeezes tight between Ed's ribs.

Oh God. Oh _God._

"She's got a school governors' meeting" he says feebly, letting that serve well enough for an answer.

Cameron takes a short breath as though deciding not to say something, but then, suddenly, "Sam already knew."

Ed lifts his head slowly, then jerks round to stare at David. "Wait, _what?"_

Cameron stares back at him, forehead crumpling in a frown. "What?"

"You told _th-Sam?"_

"She _is_ my wife, Miliband." Cameron's voice rises a little sharply. "You might not want to tell Justine, but how _I_ handle it is up to me, isn't it?"

"Not-not if-"-because suddenly, that's all Ed can _picture_ , Cameron _telling_ people, _laughing_ , the whole thing being some kind of casual _joke_ that Cameron's going to toss to his friends over tables at dinner parties, and, and-

"Is thith th-some kind of _joke?"_ He's standing up now, staring at Cameron, cheeks burning. "Ith this some kind of-is thith th-some kind of fucking-th-some kind of _joke_ , th-some kind of-are you jutht-juth fucking-fucking-you-is thith jutht _funny_ for you-"

 _"What?"_ Cameron half-scrambles upright, staring at him. " _What?_ Are you _serious?"_

"Of-of _courthe_ I'm therious-" Ed turns away, biting his lip. "Why the hell _wouldn't_ you?"

There's a moment of silence, before Cameron steps forward. "You really think that about me?"

Ed opens his mouth and closes it again.

Cameron takes another step closer. "You think that's what this about? That I-that I-"

They haven't used the word, Ed realises suddenly. They haven't used the word _kissed._ Or he hasn't, he thinks.

"To-what? _Use_ you?" Cameron looks like he's been slapped. "That's what you think?"

Ed can't speak, so he just presses his mouth shut and tries to shake his head very, very slightly.

* * *

David wants to yell. He wants to turn away from Miliband and slam his hand into the wall.

But that's not going to make it better.

Instead, he puts a hand on Miliband's arm. "I'm not" he says, enunciating each word as slowly as possible. "Using you."

Miliband won't look at him.

"Or _manipulating_ you. Or _anything like that."_ Miliband flinches, and David becomes aware that his fingers are digging into his arm a little too hard. He lets go.

"Sorry." His fingers rub gently at the spot where he squeezed, soothing.

Something softens in Miliband's eyes, and he looks away, too rapidly for it to be anything but deliberate.

"OK." Miliband's voice is almost a whisper.

For a moment, David is sure he can't have heard him correctly. "Pardon?"

A roll of the eyes, a pout of the lips, and David has to immediately fight not to let the huge grin spring across his face.

Because that's Miliband. Right there.

"Fine" Miliband says in the snippy tone David's far more used to, and he has to fight not to grin.

Or laugh.

Or grab Miliband up, because he's-

He's so bloody-

"What?" Miliband's staring at him, all aggrieved and folded arms and sticking-out lip.

David shakes his head. "Nothing. Just-I rather missed you."

Miliband's eyes widen very slightly, pink tingeing his pale cheeks. But he huffs and looks away, with "You only th-aw me yesterday" muttered out of the corner of his mouth. David looks away to hide his own grin.

"What time?" he asks, just to try to divert them onto something they can both be certain of.

"Um-" Miliband sucks at a corner of his lip-David tries not to watch the movement of his mouth. "Justine leaves after dinner. Then-thometimeth-they'll go to the Dartmouth Arms or the Palmerthton for a drink-tho we'll have a couple of hours-"

He blushes again. "I mean-to talk! To-to-"

God, that's adorable.

David jumps a little at the words. The way Ed's fingers have started to fumble with his earlobe again isn't helping.

Something in his face must surprise Ed, because he shuts up.

"Um-" David looks away. "I've got-um-Flo's Open Day to get to-"

Miliband blinks, then shakes his head. "Oh, I-no, no, of courthe-"

David shakes his head. "So-I suppose I'll-"

"Mmm." Miliband's avoiding his eyes again.

David stares at him for another moment, then, impulsively, "You are going to be there, aren't you?"

God. God, how pathetic.

Miliband blinks up at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Just-" David wishes he'd never opened his mouth. "You don't seem-you seem-"

_Scared._

Miliband must hear the unspoken word loud and clear, because he flushes suddenly, scarlet. "Tho much for _me_ not truthting _you."_

"Well, you don't, do you?"

David could kick himself.

But then again, it's him and Miliband. Arguing is what they do.

Miliband's eyes flicker for a moment, but all he says is, pulling his lips tight, "I thuppothe you'll jutht have to trutht me, won't you?"

David meets his gaze, holds it until he can see Miliband's blushing again.

"Yes" he says. "I suppose I will."

He lets Miliband leave first. Miliband almost raises a hand as if to touch his arm, but then stops as if thinking better of it, and David watches him stop in the door and dart David an awkward look with an "I'll-I'll thee you later then" with a half-nod, as he ducks out of the doorway.

David just stares after him, with no time to come up with a response, before slowly letting his head sink into his hands with a groan.

* * *

"Anyway-" Yvette arranges herself more comfortably, patting the towel down, while the three men glance around, in various stages of mortification. "Cameron and Ed-"

"Yvette-" Nick's staring hard in the other direction, keeping the towel, firmly gathered around him. "I'm kind of naked here."

"Oh, 30 women have already seen you, Clegg, what's the difference?"

"Yeah, well-" Balls swells indignantly, yanking his own towel more tightly. "Doesn't apply to the rest of us, does it?"

Yvette kicks him. "We're _married_ , you idiot!"

Balls stares at her, then blinks. "Oh, yeah!"

"It was just a sauna" George repeats to himself quietly, despairingly, as he stares at the array of hysterics around him and ponders just what his life has become. "It was just meant to be a nice, relaxing, _sauna."_

"Oh, level up." Yvette waves this objection aside, as though George sees her naked every day (and God, that's an image he'll never get out of his head.) "I thought you were here to talk about Cameron and Ed."

"How did you know?"

Yvette rolls her eyes. "Because yesterday, Ed got more worked up than he got when he was devising a graduate tax with Gordon."

George glances at Balls. "That sounds vaguely dubious."

"We don't all hang out with Natalie Rowe, Osborne."

George rolls his eyes. It's Balls who says "Got to agree with Yvette, though."

"I try to contain my amazement" mutters Nick.

"Because he was always like that, wasn't he?" Balls shuffles slightly, gathering his towel more comfortably around him. "I mean, back when we were in the Treasury, he'd nearly fucking pass out on the floor if a girl came near him."

"Girls came near him?"

Yvette kicks his ankle. George jumps. "Ow!"

"Oh, shut up." Yvette leans back, adjusting her towel a little. "But no, he was always like that. Even when Liz was round at ours', he'd usually be discussing policy with her."

"And we all wondered why he wasn't married."

George waits for Nick to receive a foot to the shin, but Yvette concedes the point with a shrug.

"Well" George says, deciding to risk it. "He's not changed much, has he?"

Yvette spares him a kick, instead nodding thoughtfully. Which, George reflects, may be the first time Yvette has ever given him something resembling an agreeable look.

"Except with David. Cameron" Nick volunteers, and Yvette's eyes dart sharply around the group.

George freezes, widening his eyes meaningfully at Nick. Balls decides to go for the subtle route, eyes bulging, and hand slicing rapidly across his own throat.

Yvette stares at her husband. "What the hell was _that?"_

Balls stares back at her with a look of wide-eyed innocence, before he admits "I have no idea."

George barely resists the urge to let his head fall into his hands. Nick rolls his eyes. "Seriously, how are you a politician?"

There's another thud, followed by an indignant squawk. Nick glares accusingly at Yvette, who, foot poised, arches an eyebrow meaningfully. _"I_ can say it."

* * *

"Flo's a delight to have in class" Miss Karim tells them. "Very self-confident, very talkative. She's settled in fantastically."

Sam squeezes David's hand gently. David holds onto it as though it's a life raft.

"She's very lively and willing to interact" the teacher continues, as they all glance over at Flo, who's pottering about on the other side of the classroom, still examining the books they've both just been exclaiming over.

"Plus her fine motor skills are starting to develop, as well as her gross motor skills." Miss Karim's pulling a selection of pictures out. "You can see the way her dexterity has improved since September, for instance-"

David, despite thinking them worthy of being framed on a wall simply because Flo has produced them, can't see the difference too well-though the shapes are more strongly defined, the lines more confident, less wobbly. Sam, though, with her artistic eye, grins as she examines them, particularly one that looks like Flo's face superimposed on a flower.

"Though we had a bit of an issue last week--" Miss Karim adds, with a tilt of the head towards David. It takes him a moment to catch on-the argument of Monday morning seems a hundred years ago.

"But aside from that, Flo's coping really well. She's very relaxed now. She's very sociable, very easy to have in the classroom-"

David can't help but grin, even in the midst of the chaos of his own thoughts. Florence has always been the easiest of their four babies-even from when she was born, she gurgled co-operatively whenever she was passed into an eager pair of arms, her big, ready smile, once she was old enough, bouncing into view the moment she saw a face, as though absorbing all the love in the room around her as her own.

Then David's smile fades as he remembers what he was doing less than an hour before this, sitting at his daughter's Open Day with his wife, and he squeezes Sam's hand reflexively.

"You've got to see him" Sam had said incredulously, as though even the idea of any other course of action was ludicrous. "You've got to talk to him and you can't talk _there._ Did you even think about the CCTV?"

No. David has to admit, he didn't. He'd been too busy thinking about-

He'd wrenched his thoughts away from what he'd been thinking about.

"Look, it's going to get worse if you don't speak to him" Sam had pointed out, giving his hand another squeeze.

"What-"

"What?"

David had almost not said it.

He'd looked away from Sam. Then he hadn't been able to not say it.

"What if it happens again?" he'd asked, his voice almost a mumble and he'd waited for Sam's hand to fall away.

It hadn't. Instead, it had squeezed tighter.

"Then" she'd said, as the car turned into the car park by the churchyard of the school. "It's better you know, isn't it?"

Now, David glances at his daughter again on the other side of the classroom. He watches her, drinking her in, her ponytail bouncing and her chubby cheeks and her big, blue eyes crinkled in a smile as if she can fill him up, leaving no room for any other thoughts at all.

* * *

Ed folds one hand over the other, then springs up from the couch. He switches the TV on, then off. He half-crosses to a bookshelf, then changes his mind halfway there.

He glances at the clock. God, Cameron isn't even meant to be here for fifteen minutes.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Zia is putting the boys to bed upstairs. Ed had saved getting home until the last possible moment, dragging out each document he'd need to sign. This morning, he'd managed to get out the house before anyone else was up. Usually, he'd have grabbed something to eat from York Rise, but today, dawn still cracking across the sky, nowhere had been open, and he'd ended up sitting on a bench, looking out over the Heath, trying not to think about anything, watching the world slowly lighten around him, not knowing whether he was dreading it or not.

As it was, tonight, he'd managed to get in a few minutes before Justine left, but when she was getting ready.

"Where are the boys?" he'd managed to ask, telling himself he could handle this. He can just....manoeuvre around Justine. Just for tonight. Then he'll-he'll tell Cameron-

Well.

He'll tell Cameron-

"Oh, upstairs-" Justine had pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, hair straggling around her face. "I think Zia's giving them a bath."

"Oh." Ed had scrabbled for something to say. "Um. Have they eaten?"

Justine had given him a strange look. Ed could hardly blame her.

But this was-that was what should be natural.

Maybe he's just not trying hard enough. Maybe he can make-

"No, Zia gave them their dinner before I got in." Justine had been gathering papers together, shuffling them. "I was just-revising this SEND presentation I'm doing with Polly tonight-Mark wants some figures on the numbers of SEND children, and on the, you know, rates of provision and that kind of thing-"

"Right" Ed had nodded, for lack of anything else to do.

Justine had given him another odd look, and then, seeming to decide that it wasn't worth worrying about, she had turned to head for the door.

"Are you going on the bike?"

"No, no-" Justine had adjusted her glasses, reaching for the green waterproof in the coat cupboard. "No, this is just-in case it rains-"

"Right-" Ed had looked at her for another moment, and then suddenly, almost a little desperately, "Justine."

Justine had stopped at the foot of the stairs, half-in, half-out of the jacket. "Yeah?"

Ed had just stared at her, trying to grip that feeling from deep in his stomach and yank it up, that delighted plunging in his body at the sight of Cameron, trying to remember how to feel-

He has to, he just has to-

"Um-" He'd shook his head, and then quickly, awkwardly, pushed his mouth into hers.

Her mouth had been warm and had opened in surprise, and Ed had pushed his tongue inside. He'd stood there, awkwardly, one hand on her shoulder, and his tongue was just there in her mouth.

That's all it was. Just a tongue and a mouth, doing nothing. And that was exactly how it had felt. Even faintly ridiculous.

His tongue had moved awkwardly and he'd moved his lips into what had nearly been a rough press, before almost pushing himself back away from her.

Justine had stared at him, mouth still slightly parted, bemused, and Ed had forced his hand to stay at his side, not to lift and wipe furiously at his lips.

"Th-see you later" he'd managed to say, before taking a few, hasty steps back into the living room, almost fumbling his gaze away from her.

Justine had stood there in her green waterproof, staring at him. "Bye" she'd said slowly, her forehead creasing, and Ed hadn't known whether to be relieved or not that she clearly hadn't enjoyed the kiss any more than he had.

When he'd heard the front door close, Ed had half-run into the kitchen, dragging his hand across his lips as he did so, where he'd stuck his head under the tap, letting water gargle into his mouth, until it dribbled over and out and down his chin, nearly choking him.

And now he's sitting. Waiting.

He'd been intending to keep his suit on. A suit would hammer _work_ across both their faces.

Maybe it would be easier to look at Cameron's face with _work_ stamped across it.

But Ed can't stand sitting around in a suit and so he's changed into one of his dark jumpers with a soft shirt underneath and jeans.

Cameron won't-couldn't-find him-in _this._

Ed should be happier at that thought.

As he wanders back and forth across the carpet, fingers pursed around his earlobe, he glances at the armchair.

Did he pick-no, it was Justine. It must have been Justine. Ed's never really liked it, come to think of it.

He wonders how much of the house he actually likes, come to think of it. He's never really-he doesn't really think about it, he supposes. It's just....a house.

He sees again that confused, brow-creased look she gave him before she left.

Oh God, what-

Was he-

What if-

Ed's stomach squirms uncomfortably. What if she-what if she expects-

No. No.

It's been ages, she won't-

But then, what if because it's been ages-

Ed's hand curls into a fist, almost brings itself down into the arm of the chair in frustration. For God's sake, most men would be-

But then, Ed's never-

Maybe that's it. Maybe-maybe his signals with Cameron just got-just got-tangled. Confused. Mixed up.

Ed lets out a groan, sinking down onto the disliked armchair, letting his face fall into his hands.

God, what's taking Cameron so _long?_

* * *

David nearly gets out of the car. Then doesn't.

God, it would be so much easier if he could go one place without his security.

Then again, maybe the security's a blessing in disguise. If he was on his own, God knows if he'd even make it to the door.

Just get it over with, he tells himself. Just do it. Then you never have to think about it again.

He tries to believe it.

Oh, dear God.

God, what if Miliband's playing him for a complete fool? What if he turns up on the doorstep and Miliband's not even there?

No.

Miliband's not going to do that. He's not-

David rolls his eyes. God, is this how pathetic he's becoming?

He absent-mindedly rolls his tie between his hands. He's taken off his suit, debated for ages about whether or not to keep the tie on, but the closer he'd got to Miliband's house, the more he'd felt like it was choking him. Eventually, he'd half-scrambled out of it after sitting in the back of the car for five minutes, trying to convince himself to open the door.

Now, he presses his fingers into it absent-mindedly, digging his nails in. He's unbuttoned his top button, trying to get some air, but he feels too hot.

Maybe he should have changed. Maybe he should have smoothed his hair down.

God, he feels like a bloody teenager.

He takes a deep breath, the way he does when he's about to throw himself into an icy river, bracing for the shock of the cold on his shoulders, the slap of ice into his chest, stealing his breath so that his lungs burn and think they'll never find it again. Stares at his hands as they shake slightly.

OK.

He's got to do it. OK.

Do it.

He gets out of the car.

* * *

There's a knock at the door.

Ed freezes. Right.

Right. Right.

Move.

He manages to get to his feet. His stomach feels like it stays behind.

Jesus. _Jesus-_

OK. Just-

Just go to the door.

Ed catches a frantic glimpse of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. His hair's a mess, and his cheeks are burning. His eyes look as though they're trying to crawl out of his face and hide.

Ed turns away with a grimace.

At least that should mean there's no chance of Cameron finding him-

Something thuds dully in Ed's chest instead of relief, and his lip trembles.

He tugs at his jumper sleeves, wonders frantically if he should have combed his hair, if he'll look like he's not taking it seriously, if it's _better_ to not take it seriously, before he's at the door, and as the knock comes again, he fumbles it open.

Cameron's standing on his doorstep.

Of course- _obviously_ , Cameron's standing there.

But-

He-

Cameron smiles slightly. Nervously. (When was the last time Cameron did anything _nervously?)_

"H-hello" Ed manages stupidly, voice tight, with a little jerk of his head.

He manages to tell himself, frantically, to _just shut up_ , before his eyes skim down over Cameron, and he notices with a jolt that Cameron's collar's open, his tie gone. He glimpses a flash of bare skin at Cameron's collarbone and it jumps in his chest, so his hand tightens suddenly on the door frame.

Oh _God. Oh-_

His eyes are pulled back, helplessly, to Cameron's face, forcing him to notice that his hair's a mess and his eyes seem even brighter underneath it, that he looks almost schoolboyish with his hair dishevelled, even as Ed scowls as hard as he can.

And Cameron just looks at him, and says, with that slight tilt of his head and that grin, "Hi, you."

* * *

Oh.

David has to swallow at the sight of Ed Miliband.

In that jumper. That dark blue jumper.

This is ridiculous, David tries to tell himself firmly. It's ridiculous.

Miliband-

Objectively, Miliband should not be good-looking.

Sweet-maybe. Rather endearing.

But not handsome.

His eyes are too big for that. His face is too-not odd. But-maybe alive. The way it moves, his mouth pulling tight, his eyes bulging when he's especially indignant.

But not handsome.

Absolutely, definitely, not-on-your-life is he handsome.

David is telling himself this very firmly right now.

Only part of him seems to be doing him the courtesy of paying attention.

Meanwhile, other parts of him-David hastily tries to move one leg in front of the other-have decided to stage complete anarchy.

And his mind seems to be, in an _incredibly traitorous manner_ , siding with some of _those_ parts.

David tries not to bite his lip, pushes away the thoughts of his fingers curling into Miliband's hair again-

(He'd have thought it would be weirder, kissing a man. God, why hasn't he thought of that before? Isn't he supposed to have some crisis about that part of it? Isn't it supposed to feel-)

His eyes fall on Miliband's legs, encased in denim, and immediately, he's thinking about what other parts, wrapped in denim, might, might-

(And he's definitely supposed to be having a crisis about _that_ part of it.)

"Um-" Miliband, blinking nervously, steps back, gesturing awkwadly to the hallway. "You-you can-you should-"

David tries to snap his thoughts away from the idea of Miliband-Miliband-denim-clad-Miliband clad in-

Just don't go there.

"Thanks" he manages, instead, stepping inside. His hand brushes Miliband's as he does so.

They both jump, Miliband snatching his hand back, avoiding David's eyes.

"Th-sorry" he mutters, and David swallows, unsure whether or not it's relief or disappointment that slumps in his chest.

God. How was he so _certain_ this afternoon? And then terrified in the car-and-and-and _now-_

God, it would be easier if Miliband would just be as obnoxious as he usually is. David could ride that out, at least.

They stand there, in Miliband's hallway. Looking at each other.

"Um-"

Miliband blinks. "Oh. God. Th-sorry-do-do you want me to-"

He nods awkwardly, and glancing down at the black coat draped over his arm, David realises with a grin that he keeps tucked inside his chest that Miliband's offering to take it.

"Oh-um-"

He gathers it up, hands it over. Miliband takes it quickly, seeming glad for something to do with his hands-David tries to drag his thoughts away from where they want to go-and it's as David shifts his weight automatically, tugging at his collar, that he notices Miliband's eyes flicker briefly to his chest.

It's less than a second, and David's probably the only person in the world who would have noticed. But he notices.

Miliband's eyes widen, just barely. David almost hears his breath catch, watches him swallow hard as he turns away, Adam's Apple bobbing.

Miliband scowls as though that might prevent David from noticing the blush rising steadily up his cheeks. David quite likes the scowl, so he smirks.

Miliband scowls harder. But that blush deepens and, all right. Maybe David knows how to do this, after all.

* * *

"Really, Miliband?"

Ed grits his teeth as he hangs up Cameron's coat. "What?" he mutters, jaw clenched, trying to step out of the cupboard as quickly as possible.

"No crack about Old Etonians getting the staff to hang up their coats for them?"

Ed deliberately doesn't look anywhere near him. Instead, he purses his lips and heads into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he manages, brusquely, over his shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"Tea. Would you like tea?" He keeps his back firmly to Cameron as he speaks, busying himself searching the cupboard for the tea bags.

"What, for me?" Ed's not looking at him, but he knows, just _knows,_ that Cameron's leaning against the door frame in that smug, arrogant, fucking _casual_ way he has. "Do Old Etonians get served tea here? Or do they have to get it themselves to help to rebalance the class disparity?"

"You've had it before, haven't you?"

Ed freezes at his own words, hand on the kettle. He can almost feel the smirk on Cameron's face.

His cheeks burn. "Th-shut up" he manages, without turning round, heart pounding, as he fumbles with the kettle, barely waiting for it to finish boiling.

Cameron's voice, when it comes, is quieter. "Miliband."

"Do you want milk or sugar?" Ed picks up the kettle, nearly crashing it down in surprise at its' weight-he's overfilled it.

"Miliband-"

"Milk or sugar?"

_"Miliband-"_

"Look, do you want milk or sugar in your bloody tea, Cameron, becauthe I don't know if you've got all night, but I bloody _haven't,_ and if you can't bloody be bothered to tell me, then I'm perfectly fine with-"

The kettle slips, clattering against the hob. Boiling water splashes onto Ed's hand.

 _"Shit!"_ He lets go of the kettle, grabs his hand between his knees, squeezing it tight. _"Shit-_ fuck, oh _God, ow-"_

Cameron's already there-dimly, Ed is able to realise even then that he must have darted forward the second he saw the kettle slip. He's there, and then his hands are around Ed's arms. "Come here, come here-"

He half-manoeuvres Ed towards the sink, shoving his own hand under the tap, testing the temperature, then guiding Ed's hand under the gush of icy water, making Ed gasp.

Cameron holds his hand under the tap, his grip fierce and tight. "You idiot" he breathes. "God, are you all right?" His chin is over Ed's shoulder, his hand around his wrist. "Christ, Miliband. Are you OK?"

Ed has to grind his teeth, in too much pain to bother retaliating just yet. "Ow, ow-yeah-"

"God." Cameron's chin is resting on Ed's shoulder now, and he laughs shakily, gently, the sound and the tickle of his breath raising goosebumps on Ed's neck. "God. Are you OK?"

Ed manages to nod. "Ow. Chritht. That hurts" he manages, his throat oddly swollen all of a sudden. Not from the pain.

Cameron just nods. His chin stays over Ed's shoulder, his hands holding Ed's gently under the stream. The water is icy cold, but Ed, breath suddenly rapid, barely feels it at all.

* * *

David counts in his head, taking Miliband's hand out from under the tap slowly and carefully, wrapping it in a tea towel. "Where's the First Aid stuff?" he asks, gently, holding Miliband's wrist, fingers stroking it gently.

Miliband, wincing, manages to raise one shoulder in a shrug. "Not-not th-sure-"

David sighs, touches his hand, and asks instead "Where's your freezer?"

"Um-er-we've got one in the-er-bathement-"

David moves towards the door in the hall, but Miliband says quickly, "N-no, Zia'th down-it'th her kitchen."

David blinks. "Well, I'm sure she won't mind" he argues. "It is an emergency."

Miliband glances away, shaking his head rapidly. "N-no, it'th-it'th fine, I jutht need-"

David rolls his eyes. "You scalded your _skin_ , Miliband."

Looking at Miliband's stubborn expression, trying not to notice the slight pout of his lips, David sighs. "Here-where's your fridge?"

Miliband points to one of the god-awful Eighties-style cupboards-Sam must have nearly collapsed when she walked in here at young Sam's party-and David opens the one next to it. He sighs. "You did _know_ there was a freezer in here, didn't you?"

At Miliband's confused look, David feels something squeeze, tightly, almost overwhelmingly fond in his chest.

"Here-" A few moments later, he's extracted a couple of chunks of ice and wrapped them carefully in the towel. He reaches for Miliband's hand again, trying to make sure his fingers only brush his wrist.

"There-" His own voice is lost somewhere in his throat. He clears it quickly. "Um-it-it might be easier if we-get you onto the sofa-"

Miliband's blushing furiously as David awkwardly (God, since when does _he_ do anything _awkwardly?)_ gestures ahead, feeling it might be a little bizarre to show Miliband around in his own house.

"Ah" he says, as they sit down, a few careful inches between them, glancing up at the bay windows behind and noticing that the shutters are already closed. "You should-put some cream on it once it-"

He trails off as his eyes find Miliband's which are resting on his own face. Miliband's watching him, bemusement in his dark eyes. "Why are you being nithe to me?" he says, voice much softer now, and David feels a sensation stir under his skin, prickling the hair at the back of his neck, at the slightest touch of their fingers.

"I wath horrible to you" Miliband admits, in barely a whisper. David's eyes dart to his, and Miliband looks away, blush creeping up his cheeks again.

David tries to remember the last time he heard Ed Miliband, Ed, infuriating, irritating, I-am-always-always-right-and-never-say-sorry-for-anything-ever Miliband, admit he was _wrong._

"This isn't how I thought we'd be talking about this." He hears his own voice, softer, almost its' own whisper, as though it's coming from somewhere else.

Oh, hell.

* * *

Ed gulps.

Then looks away. Then gulps again.

Oh God.

He glances down at where Cameron's hand is still touching his own.

They both jump back at the same moment. They glance at each other.

"Thorry" Ed hears himself mumble, heat creeping up his cheeks again.

"It's fine." Cameron says it too quickly, with a little glance at him that makes something flutter in Ed's stomach. "It's-yes, it's-fine."

Ed stares at him, and then looks away, heart hammering. He's blushing and awkward and Cameron's just _sitting_ there, knowing exactly what to do and say and _think_ , and being all _relaxed_ and _smooth_ and _confident_ , with his bloody loose _collar_ and his big blue _eyes_ and, and, and, his-

"Look, we _said_ we'd talk about it." Cameron wriggles an inch closer, giving Ed a longer look. "Properly" he says, a little more quietly now."

Ed stares at him. Questions are clambering over each other. _How-why-how did we-_

_Why did-_

_Why can't-_

Ed abruptly throws himself upright and heads for the other side of the room, not knowing where to or why. He finds himself standing in front of the bookcase, eyes roaming unseeingly over the titles, keeping his back very firmly to the rest of the room. To Cameron.

Which he's managing, _perfectly well,_ closing his fingers around the spine of a book without looking at it, tugging it loose and pulling at it distractedly, until Cameron says, softly, but with that _smirk_ curling, even in his _voice,_ "We kissed."

Ed slams the book back onto the shelf.

"Yeth" he says, voice rising dangerously near the end. "Yeah-we-"

He can't say it.

"You can't say it" Cameron says, reading his mind, the way Cameron's learnt how to bloody _do,_ the way he's perfected over nearly five bloody _years_ of _this-_

Unless, he just knows it, knows it the way his heart beats and the way his breath shakes, and Ed honestly doesn't know which would be worse, or even if they're the same thing.)

"What do you _want_ me to th-say it for?" Ed almost turns round, but doesn't quite manage it. "What's the bloody _point_ in _th-saying_ it?" His fingers are digging almost painfully into the white wood. "We-we-"

He shakes his head and forces himself round. "What'th happened-let'th jutht-why aren't we jutht-trying to bloody _forget about it?"_

Cameron's standing up now too, moving towards him.

"Do you know what would happen?" Ed barks, because they're the safest words he can reach for, and because this part of it, this at least-"If the papers got hold of it? If _Murdoch-"_

He actually manages to splutter himself into silence for a moment, because Jesus Christ, he's just thought of that. Well, obviously, he's thought of it over the _day_ , but the way his thoughts have been leaping back from any thoughts of _kissing_ and _Cameron_ , and most importantly, _kissing Cameron,_ he's only just really, properly thought of it, and he suddenly has to fasten his fingers tighter onto the shelves for support, because _Jesus._

"They'd fucking-" His voice actually shakes. For a moment, he thinks he's going to vomit, then realises the pain in his hand isn't helping, and yanks it away from the shelf. "They'd have a fucking-oh my God-"

"OK-" Cameron holds up his hands. "All right-look, I know, I know, we weren't careful-I know, but nobody knows-"

"And how long's _that_ going to last?" Ed snaps, folding his arms tight, to give himself at least the _feeling_ he can hold himself together. "If the-if the fucking-Jesus, the entire bloody country would go into-"

"Aren't you overestimating our Tory education system?" Cameron manages weakly, with an attempt at his usual grin. "Maybe enough people won't know who the Prime Minister _is_ anymore."

"This isn't a fucking _game_ , Cameron!" Ed doesn't even pause to reflect with horror on how high-pitched his voice is becoming, the ominous prickling at his eyes. He turns away from Cameron, blinking hard. "I underthtand it'th not you they'd be completely _dethtroying_ , but-"

"Hang on." Cameron takes a step forward, brow furrowing. "First, you can't really be enough of a conspiracy theorist to think all the flak would rain down on one side-"

Ed snorts.

"Second, they'd probably go for me harder, if anything."

Ed blinks. "What?"

Cameron shrugs. "I'm a Tory Prime Minister. About the only thing Rupert Murdoch likes about me is that I have a family, anyway, and this would send that to hell-to him, anyway. Gay marriage wasn't exactly high up his list of priorities, I believe. Snogging another man'd be another thing to add to the _not a real Tory_ pile. And I'm pretty sure I'm higher on Dacre's hit list than _you_ at the moment." He raises an eyebrow at Ed's face. "I know this is putting paid to your little conspiracy dreams of us living in each other's pockets, Miliband, but-

"Oh, for _fuck's sake, Cameron."_ Ed manages to restrain the shout into a hiss at the last moment. "Do you have any fucking _idea_ what-"

He can't even imagine it. He can't even imagine what the media would do with it. Dear God.

What headline would they even use? What headline _could_ they use? Would they even be able to get themselves together enough to use a headline or would they be just sat, staring silently at the screens, because _this. Just. Does Not Happen._

(And he's trying desperately not to let his thoughts stray anywhere near the words _snogging another man.)_

"Thith ith ridiculous" he says tightly, because it's the only thing to do, for God's sake, to keep him from picturing reporters and cameras and their careers dissolving between their fingers and Jesus _God-_

"It is" he says, off Cameron's look. "We should-we should be jutht-" Ed drags a hand through his hair, tugs at his ear furiously. "Trying to-"

"Do you want to?"

Ed stops. Literally, stops in mid-gesture. "W-what?"

For a moment, they stare at each other. Ed can feel his chest rising and falling, his heart pounding.

"I-"

"Anyway, I was more wondering _why."_

Ed blinks again. "What- _why-"_

"Well-you know-" Cameron gives him what must be a rehearsed shrug-Ed knows this, knows the polish, the practice, can see it from a mile away, and it jolts in his chest that Cameron must be at least slightly ill at ease, enough to need this, and the jolt is far more pleasant than it should be.

"Aren't you?"

"Aren't I _what?"_

Cameron's eyes flicker away, then back. "Why it-why you kissed me."

Ed nearly explodes. "For the _latht bloody time-"_

"OK, OK" Cameron says, while Ed fumes, fists clenching and unclenching, even as his hand sears, and tries not to notice the smirk creeping out at Cameron's mouth. "When I kissed you. Just-when we kissed."

Ed squeezes his eyes shut. "It-"

"Taking, you know, who it was first out of the equation-"

"I'd say it's a pretty bloody important point of conthideration!"

When he opens his eyes, Cameron's mouth twitches, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Ed stares at him. He won't know for a while yet that almost the exact same words came out of Cameron's mouth a little over 24 hours beforehand.

"Well-" and Cameron's watching him, his eyes suddenly sharper now, keener, as though Ed might look away any moment. "Did you think about it? Why?"

* * *

Miliband's terrified.

David can tell that much. Five years of reading Miliband every week and most days in between, five years after knowing him longer, has taught him what his nerves look like, that darting glance to the side, that rapid blinking, the tug at the earlobe or worrying at his lip, the way his hands wave more wildly.

 _"Thought_ about it?" Miliband almost splutters the words out. "Th-thought about-why-about why-I would-you-"

He flushes a deep crimson.

David waits as Miliband folds his arms like a child, looks off to the side and huffs.

"Well, _I_ don't know!" This explosion a few seconds later as Miliband tugs at his jumper, eyes springing back to David as though daring him to tell him to calm down. "Perhapth-perhapth-I don't know! You were-you're jutht-you're jutht fucking-you're tho bloody _irritating-"_

"Are you saying I _irritated_ you into kissing me?"

Off Miliband's warning look, David sighs. "Or kissing me back?"

Miliband holds his gaze for a long moment and then looks away.

"Pleathe don't" he says, in a much, much smaller voice this time. "It'th not funny to me."

Something squeezes very hard in David's chest. Miliband looks away, as though it's cost him something to admit that. Or to let David hear it.

"I-" David takes a deep breath, perhaps, without letting himself notice, deciding to repay Ed's vulnerability with one of his own. Or just tired of being the only one thinking about it. "I'm honestly asking you."

Miliband's eyes find his again. David takes another, deeper breath, as Miliband's mouth parts.

"I don't know....maybe."

David's hands are at his sides, as he wonders what on earth he planned to do with that answer.

Miliband opens his mouth, then closes it, then, abruptly "You can't tell me not to think it, you know!"

"Think what?" David's heart hammers.

"That thith ith all some-" Miliband's hand whirls, gaze darting-David fights not to grab hold of it. "Thome-bloody- _prank-_ or, or-thome manipulative-th-some Crosby trick-or, or _technique,_ or-"

David feels the dull thud of the words in his chest. Of course.

"Oh" he says heavily, because of course. Of course that's all Miliband would be thinking of.

"Oh" and then, "For God's sake, Miliband." His voice sounds flat, even to his own ears. "I'd have far more to bloody lose than you, wouldn't I?"

Off Miliband's look, David sighs. "I'd look like a bastard" he points out, taking a step closer, almost without noticing. "I know _you_ already think that, but-"

Miliband looks up at him sharply, then. "I never th-said that."

David shrugs, looks away through Miliband's French doors.

"Anyway-" Miliband folds his arms, as though he's only just remembered that they're supposed to be arguing. "You-you could have-bribed-or-or thought I'd jutht be too-too _embarrathed_ to-"

"Embarrassed?" David's head jerks up, his heart hammering in his chest again. "Why would _you_ be embarrassed?"

Miliband looks away.

"More than me, I mean?"

If Miliband was blushing before, it's nothing compared to what he's doing now.

David swallows hard. For a moment, the whole room seems to tilt a little, a vaguely surreal dizziness at the edge of his eyes, and he's almost sure for a second that this can't be real, that this has to be a dream.

He takes one step forward, then another. They're standing less than a foot apart now, behind an armchair, Miliband almost leaning against the bookshelves.

"Do-"

David can't take his eyes off him. The way his gaze flickers away, the way that softness in his dark hair catches the light, makes that silver-grey patch stand out even more in the slightly too stark overhead lights, those huge-long lashed eyes-Sam would say those lashes are wasted on a man-the way his lips look, trembling, full.

"Do you like me?"

David's voice is much softer than he meant it to be. Almost a whisper caught between them.

* * *

Ed stares at him. They're much too close.

No. Cameron's much too close.

Ed should move back. Step away.

He doesn't.

"L-like you?" The words feel odd, almost foreign in his mouth. Which they should.

 _"L-like_ you?" Ed tries to laugh.

He shouldn't have to try. He shouldn't be folding his arms so tightly. He _shouldn't_ , full stop.

Cameron's eyes flicker away for barely a second, but Ed sees the flinch in them, almost feels it. Maybe that makes him speak a little more rapidly, almost stumbling over the words. "C-Cameron, I can't _stand_ your-your-"

Ed shakes his own head at the impossibility of what he's trying to say. "I can't-I _hate_ what you stand for-" _You know that, _he has to fight not to add, fight to keep his eyes away from him.

_You know that. We both know that, so stop-stop making-stop making me feel like-_

A corner of Cameron's mouth twitches, but in humour or not, Ed doesn't know. (And that should be rarer than it should.)

"I didn't ask you about what I stand for" Cameron says quietly, now with a small smile. "I asked you about me."

Ed swallows, resisting the urge to back away, even though Cameron hasn't moved a step closer. "They're the-ah-th-same thing."

Something shutters in Cameron's eyes. "So you can't stand me?"

Ed blinks. "What? No! No, that'th not what I-" He splutters, panic scrambling in his chest at the thought of Cameron not getting this. "No, that'th-no. I can't-I don't-I don't not thtand you-I mean-" He's tripping over his words, his face uncomfortably hot, tongue-tied, his hands going wild.

Something lights up in Cameron's face, then, something that catches his eyes, makes Ed's breath catch in his chest. Something flickering and almost nervous between them, something almost nervously hopeful.

"So they're not the same thing" Cameron says softly, and Ed stops dead, staring up at him. "I-"

* * *

David stares at Miliband, who stares back at him, lip trembling ominously.

"God, you have to make it about politics, don't you?"he says slowly, feeling his way through the words. "You don't know how to do anything _else."_

Miliband flinches. "It _ith_ about politicth."

David shakes his head. "You know it isn't. Not all of it."

"Well, what _elthe_ would it be about?"

David merely raises an eyebrow.

Miliband swells indignantly. "You- _you-_ you're tho-"

"What?" David forces himself to laugh a little. "What am I _so?"_

Miliband glowers. "You know bloody well."

"Actually, I don't." David allows himself a small smile, trying to ignore the way his own heart is pounding. "I thought you were all about the straight answers to straight questions."

Miliband stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head, a small, almost bitter smile twisting his mouth. "You-you _arrogant-"_

"Really?"

"Yeth, _really."_ Miliband almost shouts the word, before dragging his voice back down to a whisper with a glance at the door. "Do you-do you jutht not even bloody _care_ what-what you're-"

"I think it's you who doesn't care." David's heart is an insistent, rapid drumbeat. His chest is rising and falling, his face hotter by the second. "I think that all those things you talk about, your _inequality_ and your _social mobility_ and, and everything else that you _never shut up about_ , I think all of _that_ , Miliband, is because you don't have a single _clue_ about how to look at anything without shoving _politics_ in front of it first."

Miliband's eyes blaze. "You don't have a fucking _clue_ " and he's right in front of David now, hissing an inch away, breath tickling David's face, their heartbeats almost pressed together. "Jutht because _you_ can't thee why anyone elthe would give a damn about anyone but them-thelves-"

"I can see _you."_

David's voice is very soft. Softer than he means it to be.

Miliband stares at him.

"You don't know who you _are."_ David almost spits the words out at him, breathing as though he's been running a marathon. "You've wrapped yourself up in all your policies and your visions and your big plans and you're scared to take any of that away, because you _don't know who you are_ without that, and you're fucking _terrified."_ David nearly whispers the words. "You're a coward, Miliband."

Miliband blazes. All over, David's sure, as though something's lighting him from the inside out.

"You arrogant fucking _bathtard-"_ Miliband hisses the words at him, and then his hands come up as though they're going to knot themselves in David's shirt, and he stops dead, eyes wild and furious and scared, and David stands there hot and tight and angry, something prickling in his eyes, both of them breathing hard, their heartbeats almost audible in the room between them.

"Doesn't make it not true." David's voice is a whisper, harsher for that. He can feel a prickling in his eyes, forces himself to stare back, one hand fighting to lift itself to Miliband's cheek. "It doesn't make it not true, Miliband, and _you know it."_

Ed kisses him.

* * *

Ed doesn't know he's doing it until his mouth is on Cameron's.

All he knows is that Cameron's words are jabbing into his thoughts, those blue eyes glinting, and he just won't _shut up_ in that smooth, plummy, _posh_ voice of his, and Ed-Ed-

Something _snaps_ in his chest and then he's fastening his fingers into Cameron's hair, wanting to drag it into a mess, just dent that smug, triumphant, _complacent-_

And then his mouth's pressing into Cameron's.

Cameron's mouth is as warm and soft as it was last time, Ed manages to register in that stunned push of mouths, and, and, he, he-

His mouth's open and hot against Cameron's, and he rears back almost immediately, but it's long enough for Cameron's arms to come around his back, for one hand to press into Ed's shoulder blades, for his head to tilt, and for him to kiss Ed back in exactly the same way.

Ed stares at him, trying not to look at the flush of his lips, he notices vaguely in some corner of his mind where words still make sense.

"I-"

Oh God.

"I-"

What's he meant to say. Really, what the _hell_ is he meant to say?

What the hell is he meant to say to Cameron when he's just-when he's-when-

"Oh God." The words crack in the air between them and Ed turns round, hands gripping the bookshelves, the world lurching sickeningly as he stares unseeingly at the book titles. "Oh God. Oh _God-_

"Miliband-" He can feel Cameron stepping towards him, and then, "Ed-"

"I'm thorry-"

"It's all right-Ed, Ed, it's all right, it's-"

"It'th _all right?!"_ Ed hears, to his horror, his voice taper into a high-pitched note that sounds horribly like a sob. "All _right?_ How in _hell_ ith it bloody _all right?!"_

Cameron's hand lands on his elbow. Ed jumps a mile, his hand flailing at Cameron's arm.

 _"Ow!"_ He yelps, cursing, grabbing his own hand and squeezing it tight between his knees again, the gesture at least giving him something to do. _"Fuck-_ that-that-"

"Give me your hand."

Ed blinks, sure he's misheard him. "What?"

"Give me your hand." Cameron takes it, Ed almost flinching back but not quite.

"You need cream" and Cameron's fingers flutter closed around Ed's wrist, anchoring him back to earth.

* * *

David has to focus on the cream. He tells himself this very firmly as he heads up the stairs, finds Miliband's bathroom too quickly, begins rummaging through the cabinet before glancing at the stairs that must lead upwards to the boys' rooms, and waiting, breath held for a moment, before continuing a little more quietly when there's no movement from above him.

God. His stomach tilts a little, and he lets his forehead press against the mirror-fronted cupboard. God. Imagine if one of them had come down.

_I've just been kissing your father._

This isn't who they're meant to be.

He finds some cream that's suitable, heads for the stairs, tries not to remember that ever since he guided Miliband back to the couch, fingers wrapped around his wrist, Miliband's said seven words to him, still sounding a little like he'd been slapped, when David had asked where the bathroom was. _Top of the stairs, on the right._

For a mad moment, when he walks back into the living room, he wonders if he'll find Miliband's disappeared from his own house.

But Miliband's still there, sitting exactly where David left him. He's fiddling with his wedding ring, David notices, with a wrench in his chest, but not fondly. He's tugging at it as if he wants to pull it right off.

David sits down silently, fiddles with the cream. He has to focus on the cream, on Ed's hand, on how to apply it, because it might be the only way to prevent himself from sinking down and curling up into a ball to just _think about what just happened._

He carefully smears the cream onto his fingers, tells himself they're not shaking a little. He's folded his fingers around Miliband's wrist again without even noticing, he realises dimly.

He rubs the cream cautiously into Miliband's skin, which is when Miliband explodes. "What, that'th _it?!"_

David forces himself not to look up at him.

"That'th-that'th-we're not going to-even-"

David is desperately tempted to say "What?" with a wink, but he somehow doesn't think Miliband will be thrilled with that right now.

Instead, he settles for "We will. In a moment."

_When I can talk._

_When I can think straight._

David wants to roll his eyes at _that._

But....Jesus.

Miliband's mouth was just.... _there._ Again.

It was like yesterday and not like yesterday. It was quicker and harder than yesterday, Ed's teeth digging into David's lip for a moment, and-it was-

Ed started it.

And David's fist wants to punch the air at _that_ thought, because even though he _knows_ it shouldn't mean that much, he _knows-_

_He wanted to kiss me._

David can't stop the huge grin he can feel, pushing at his mouth, at that one thought, over and over.

"What?" Ed's voice is almost a cry, sharp and accusing, and David looks up to see those dark eyes glittering ominously, burning accusingly into his own. "What are you _laughing_ at?"

"I'm not-hey, Ed- _Ed-"_ David's hand wraps around Miliband's to stop him pulling away, and Ed hisses in surprised pain-David's thumb caught the burn.

"Shit-sorry." David's thumb moves over the skin very softly, a silent apology, and Ed's breath catches in an entirely different way. David looks up, lets their eyes meet.

"Ed, I'm not" he says, and he just _looks_ back at Ed, lets Ed look back, not trying to hide his own eyes, to compose himself, because if there's anyone who _can_ read him, it's Ed. It's what he's been trying to do for the last five bloody years, for God's sake.

And so, after a second, Ed gives a curt nod and looks away. But David hears the slight, quavery breath he lets out.

He gets on with rubbing the cream in, fingers moving in soothing circles, making it gentle, rhythmic. He can feel a small jump inside his body each time he touches Ed's skin after a second apart, soft, almost silky. He traces a line on Miliband's palm, lets his finger waver, doodling a little. He feels Ed's breath catch again, through his own body. His thumb brushes Ed's wristbone, then again, his own breath tightening as he feels the sharp jut of it. His fingers move to Ed's and they unfurl under David's, like a flower opening to a touch of sunlight.

David's breathless. He doesn't know what they're doing. What he's doing.

God, what is he doing?

His index finger traces Miliband's very slowly, very lightly, neither of them lifting their heads. Miliband's little finger twitches. The same finger that tucked under David's at the cottage, in the warmth of that room, the glow of that screen, the heat of Miliband's breath in the dark.

"Cameron." Miliband's voice is a breath. David doesn't look up, frozen.

"Pleathe." Miliband's voice is barely a whisper, almost tearful. But when David looks up, Ed's eyes are dry, lips set but quivering, gaze almost hard but not quite.

"I wath angry" he says, hard, and then he almost flinches and his gaze wanders, but he doesn't pull his hand away.

"I know" David says, because that's all he can reach to say, and right now, he's desperately trying to remind his fingers not to curl around Ed's.

"No, you don't _know."_ Ed almost snaps the words and then "I was angry the _firtht_ time-"

"So what?" David takes a deep breath, hoping to God it will make his voice more steady than it feels."When we-" His own face heats. "That's you being _angry?"_

Ed stares at him. "Yeah" he says, in a small voice, and something thuds dully in David's chest, until Ed says suddenly, "I mean-"

His eyes move back to David's and they stare at each other.

David isn't sure how he does it, isn't sure how he stumbles out the words, but he says them, even as they tilt awkwardly in the air, "Did you...dislike....kissing me?"

Miliband holds his gaze for a long, held-breath, heart-thudding, air-taut moment, that look caught tight and bright in David's chest.

Ed's lips barely move at first and then they're a soft whisper between them, his voice only a breath, before he snatches that dark, trembling gaze away, "No."

* * *

Ed can't look at Cameron. He absolutely can't.

"We-but-thith itn't _me"_ and he hates how high-pitched his voice sounds, a thin whine cracking in the air. "It-it _ithn't_ , I've _never-before-"_

He trails off, cheeks burning hopelessly.

He stares away, at the French doors, wondering if he can escape through them. Get up and run out of the room. Leave this sitting on the sofa with Cameron.

He doesn't move.

"OK" says Cameron, after a long moment, while Ed tries not to let his breath catch too shakily in his chest. "I haven't, either."

But you have, Ed thinks bitterly. You have, because you don't even know what I mean.

He tries to remember a time he's ever kissed Justine like that.

Not at their wedding.

But there must have been, they must have-

But-but-they-

 _He_ must have.

But two days ago-he wouldn't even have been _thinking_ about kissing anyone like that.

He would never have been thinking he'd missed out on anything.

He hadn't even known what it was _like_ to-

Even under Ed's heartbeat, loud enough to make him feel faintly sick, he can feel it, feel those words with each beat, _I didn't, I didn't know it would be like that, that it was, is that what they're talking about, is that what they're talking about when they say it's-_

"You're-thith ith ridiculous" he says, and the words splutter out of his mouth, too high-pitched, falling over each other. "You're-Jethuth, Cameron, _look_ at uth!" He's whipped round, staring at Cameron, unable to decide if they're far enough apart.

Cameron's face would be inscrutable to most people, but Ed can see him flatten out the flinch by sheer willpower.

Ed's chest clenches slightly. So do his fingers.

"What about us?" Cameron says, with a cock of the eyebrow, a twitch of that smirk.

 _Don't_ , Ed thinks. _Don't do that with me._

And he-

He _wants-_

That's the only way he can describe it.

It's the only way that comes close.

He can feel that jolt of wanting to lean forward, to put his hands either sides of Cameron's face, feel his warm skin, just _touch_ him, and-

Ed rears back from the thought, but it's already there.

Kiss him.

But not just kiss him.

Kiss away that-that _look-_

"You're-you're the Prime _Minithter_ " he says, and a half-hysterical bubble of disbelieving laughter breaks free, because really, how in _hell_ have they ended up in a situation where that's one of the more _minor_ problems with this.

"You're-you're the-" His head falls into his hands at the impossibility of trying to put it into words. Of trying to grasp hold of the words himself. "We're-we're meant to be-"

Cameron's silent for a moment. Then, "Well. You _did_ say you only kissed me when you were angry."

Ed feels himself jerk slightly. "Th-so?"

"So-" He can hear the smile in Cameron's voice. Can't decide whether he likes it or not. "What? You think it's some kind of-Prime Minister-Leader Of The Opposition, thing?"

Ed drops his hands and stares at Cameron. _"What?"_

"Well-" Cameron shrugs. "Maybe that's what-Attlee carried Churchill's coffin at his funeral."

Ed snorts. "I don't think Churchill and Attlee ever had thith conversation, _Cameron."_

Cameron, catching his eye, grins. "So you think I'm Churchill then?"

Ed stares at him for a long time. "This" he says, very slowly, enunciating every word. "Is not funny."

There's a long silence. Cameron watches, his face, carefully composed, not inscrutable the way it is to everyone else-and Ed feels that pang again, that _don't do that with me, don't, you'll be, I'll-_

"Do you want me to leave?" Cameron asks, quietly.

He should.

He _should._

Why isn't he?

Why isn't he just telling Cameron they'll just never talk about it again? And then he can just leave and they'll never have to think about it all again.

Why isn't he?

Ed doesn't say anything, but he feels his head shake slowly, and, for the first time this evening, sees Cameron's shoulders start to relax.

* * *

David takes a deep breath. Then another.

It's just asking, he tells himself. Just asking.

There's no harm in it.

He can say no.

"Look-"

Don't say no. David's whole body pleads it silently, suddenly. Please don't say no, Miliband. Please.

"That-that thing. About-it-it being-just-angry. That's all that-made you-"

Miliband's eyes close for a moment, as though in pain. It feels awful, for a moment.

Miliband's eyes open. He gives a brief curt nod.

"Well." David looks at him, at the tension in every line of Miliband's body, the same way he does when he knows David's got a point. David lets it spur him on.

"Maybe-" His mouth is suddenly, unaccountably dry. He fights the urge to grip his fingers into his trousers. "Maybe. That's not. A bad. Thing."

He waits and holds his breath, his heartbeat hard and horrible and-

Suddenly, his whole body is taut, thinking and praying, _Please please please please. Please-_

Miliband's eyes move slowly to his own. David stares back at him, with absolutely no idea what expression is on his own face.

"Maybe." He takes a long breath. "Maybe. If we did it-again. It wouldn't be. A mistake."

* * *

Ed stays very still. Maybe if he doesn't move, the words won't have happened.

"What?" he manages, the words sounding very far away, even to him. "What....do....you mean?"

He's staring at the fireplace somehow. When did he start looking at the fireplace? When did he stop looking at Cameron? When did he _start_ looking at Cameron?

"Maybe-" He can feel Cameron threading his fingers together. Feel the tension in his body. "Maybe. It's not a bad thing. Maybe, it's just......political."

Ed can't look at him. He can't. He-

"Are you _theriouth?"_ he blurts out, the words dwindling into a hiss as he whips round to stare at Cameron. "Are you-you-"

Cameron meets his gaze. Ed stares back at him.

There's none of the composure that's usually there, or the curve of his grin. Instead, there's something else, his blue eyes fixed on Ed's. Something wanting and needing and _open_ and-

A moment ago, Ed wanted him to drop that composure. Now, suddenly, he's terrified.

"I-" he splutters, when Cameron doesn't answer. "I'm _married."_

Cameron shrugs. "So am I."

"That'th not the th-same" Ed manages, and then his mouth shuts like a trap.

Cameron's staring at him. "Why?"

Ed stutters. "B-becauthe-becauthe-Sam _knowth."_

Cameron stares at him. "That's-"

"You're-you're athking me to have an _affair?!"_ The words sound so bizarre, foreign in Ed's mouth, that he almost laughs. Then he thinks he might cry.

"You-you-"

"No" Cameron says, slowly. He almost smiles, but not quite. "An affair would-would mean-that would mean sleeping with someone, Miliband."

Ed almost chokes.

"You- _you-"_

He can't look at Cameron.

He can't look at the _words._ Jesus _Christ._

"What-I-you-" He has to rear back, because he can't even _think_ about that. "Are you- _Jethuth_ , Cameron-"

"I was just pointing it out." Cameron shrugs one shoulder, looking far less ruffled than he should.

Ed stares at him, hopelessly, something surging up in his chest so that for a moment he thinks he's going to scream.

Because _why isn't he?_ Why isn't he grabbing Cameron and telling him to never even _mention_ this again and then just telling him to _get out_ , and-

And yet. And yet.

"Have you-have you _thought_ about what would _happen-"_ and dear God, why's _he_ the one having to point this out? "If anyone-if anyone _found out-"_

Ed's head swims again. He almost has to lean forward and rest it on his knees.

Dear God, if anyone found out.

Murdoch would-

Oh God.

The headlines would-

Jesus Christ.

What would they even be _like?_

Sex scandals would be a boiled _sweet_ after this. This would be-be-

" _God."_ His voice cracks. "Oh, _God."_

David's silent for what feels like a long time. Then, very softly, he says it, quietly, "You know I wouldn't let that happen."

Ed shakes his head wordlessly, fingers almost pressing into his mouth.

"Ed. You know I wouldn't."

Ed's never sure how he manages to say it, but somehow he draws in a deep, shaky breath, and manages "I thought you said you were out of Murdoch's pocket, Cameron?"

There's another moment of silence before David's hand moves, slowly, and brushes Ed's shoulder uncertainly. This time, Ed doesn't pull away.

"Sounding like yourself." Cameron's voice is soft, curved, fond. Ed feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck, a pleasant warm shiver through his whole body.

And yet. And yet.

If it's just political.

Ed is silent, thinking. Cameron's hand moves away, but he can feel it, there on the couch, an inch away.

He shouldn't be.

He _shouldn't_ be.

But-

"You thaid it'th political" he says softly.

* * *

David can't look at him. He can't not look at him. For a moment, his eyes dart helplessly.

 _No._ It's screamed suddenly in every line of his body, taut in his lungs.

David's lips seem to move too slowly. "If you like" he manages, softly.

Miliband's gaze swings back to his, swiftly, rapidly. David manages to meet it, but his heart pounds.

He knows Miliband can see it in his face. He wouldn't even have to _try_ to see it.

Miliband's used to seeing him. David knows that.

When Miliband looks away and says, in barely a whisper, "OK", it hurts a little less.

There's a long moment of silence. They sit there, side by side on the sofa, hearts thudding. Each of them glances at the other, then away.

"We" David says, but his own voice comes out almost a whisper. "We could. Erm. We could-"

Ed glances at him, then away. David swallows, adjusts his weight on the sofa a little. They wait, as though each of them has something to expect from the other.

When David looks back at him, Miliband's gaze holds his.

* * *

It's only political. Ed repeats the words over and over in his head, sinking his fingers into them. It's only political. It's only political.

They should make him feel relieved.

They should. But Ed holds onto them anyway.

David Cameron isn't looking away from him.

"I-" is all Ed manages.

* * *

David can't move. He can't. He just waits, breath caught in his chest, heart pounding, his whole body a whisper of _please, please, please._

But he holds still, forcing himself not to look away from Miliband. Miliband stares back at him.

Then slowly, he wriggles forward. David waits, heart pounding, until slowly, Miliband's leg brushes his own. Ed freezes, as though waiting for him to jump away.

David just looks back at him, his fingers curling into the couch, snagging on the loose thread of a cushion, and how, how is he managing to focus on that _now_ , what's he-

Miliband leans forward slightly. David's breath catches. Miliband stops only a few inches away.

Then slowly, Ed's head tilts to the side. So does David's, the same way, and their noses bump.

"Ah-ah, thorry-"

David feels a bizarre urge to giggle rise up in his chest and he can't stop the smile that springs out. He waits, terrified of breaking this, of making Ed pull away, leap back, decide that they're being ridiculous, bizarre, stupid-

Miliband tilts his head the other way and then David feels him take a deep breath, and he leans in, too quickly, and their noses press together hard for a moment and there's a half a breath of slow, drowning heat through David's whole body and then Ed's lips press too quickly like a flutter, warm and soft into his own, and something dissolves in David's chest.

* * *

He's moving towards Cameron. Slowly.

Ed's heart is pounding so hard he can't breathe.

_It's only political. It's only political._

Oh God. Oh God.

His nose bumps Cameron's. "Ah-" His voice is a whisper. He's shut his eyes without realising. "Ah, thorry-"

Cameron doesn't say anything, but Ed can't open his eyes. _Please don't say anything_ , he thinks, the words breathing slowly, heavily between them. _Just please, don't, don't..._

He moves. He can't not move.

His nose presses into Cameron's- _oh God, am I actually going to do this, oh God-_ a moment where he's sure that this isn't real, that Cameron sitting on this sofa next to him isn't real, that any moment now, he's going to blink and look around and-

His mouth touches Cameron's.

His mouth opens around Cameron's, and that's-

Ed's kissing him. Ed thinks the words vaguely, dazed. _I'm kissing him. I'm kissing him. I'm-_

One of Cameron's hands presses slowly into Ed's back, his mouth opens, and he's kissing him back, deeper, longer.

Ed's tongue moves of his own accord. It touches the tip of Cameron's and Ed jumps at the jolt of electricity it sends through him. Cameron's hand presses harder and one of Ed's hand fumbles its' way round to Cameron's back, and-

Cameron kisses him. Softer. Deeper. Ed can't think. Cameron tilts his head into another kiss, soft and warm and sweet this time and Ed's thoughts are melting into the touch of their mouths, the soft insides of Cameron's cheeks, the warm wetness of his tongue, which should be disgusting, which with anyone else has been, but it isn't, and Ed's pulling him closer, his own mouth opening-

Cameron's mouth opens almost hungrily and Ed hears a sound rise in his own throat, a low, guttural sound, almost a growl. He's never heard it before, and he should think about it, he should stop and-

Cameron's tongue traces Ed's bottom lip, coaxes his mouth open again, and Ed's thoughts shatter, with a little gasp.

* * *

They're kissing.

David has to keep reminding himself of that, as one hand slides into Miliband's hair, and Miliband's gasp of surprise steals his own breath. _I'm kissing him._

_He's kissing me._

And because he wants to not focus too deeply now or preferably ever on what anyone would do if they could see this, but mostly just because he wants to keep kissing him, David kisses him deeper.

Miliband's lips are soft, a little chapped, but soft underneath, and they're sweetly uncertain, making David's heart jump every time they move tentatively around his own, especially when Miliband's hand presses itself into his cheek with a sudden determination, but then his lips nervously press another urgent kiss to David's mouth, as though daring himself to do it.

David hears himself make a sound in the back of his throat and he pulls Miliband closer. He's trying to keep only one hand on him at first, but his other hand doesn't know where to put itself, and eventually just seems to decide it's had enough and then his arms are around Miliband, and he's kissing him deeper, much deeper, his tongue exploring Miliband's mouth very slowly now, soft and warm and eager and-

David's hands want to move. They really want to move.

Not under-and even the thought sends a jolt of longing to David's cock, and he has to stifle a gasp, but he knows Miliband must feel it. His teeth dig into Ed's lip as he tilts his head and Ed gasps, too.

"Shit. Sorry-" The first word's muffled, because it's said into Miliband's mouth, and that makes David look (which means as they break apart, he's got a very good glimpse of how red Miliband's lips are, which sends another jolt through him, making the already difficult task of looking unruffled a nigh impossibility.)

"I-"

"It'th-um-fine-" Miliband seems to hear how ridiculous this sounds, because the already present flush of colour in his cheeks deepens, and his eyes dart away. David is seized with the urge to grab him and pull him back in, but forces himself to stay still. He takes heart from the fact that this is the first time they've kissed and it hasn't ended with Miliband either dissolving into a crisis or fleeing the room.

"I-" He tries to clear his throat, to smooth out his voice.

Looking at Miliband, with his hair dishevelled and his huge, dark eyes, and those flushed, pouting lips, nothing's happening on that score.

"Um-" He's trying to think of anything that isn't as direct as _"Can we do that again?"_

Miliband's eyes narrow. "What?" He's tense suddenly, and something squeezes in David's chest at the sight.

"Are you all right?" he asks, voice softer than he intends.

Something flickers in Miliband's eyes. "You-" His voice is a breath.

David waits.

For a moment, Miliband just stares, managing to look oddly furious and stunned and breathless and something like hopeful all at the same time.

 _"You-"_ This time, the word's full-force.

And then Miliband's kissing him again.

It's rougher, harder. David doesn't even get a chance to think before Miliband's mouth is just _there_ and he's kissing, almost as hard but not quite, mouth open and eager and demanding, and David's hands are moving now, one on his back, one on his cheek, and then Miliband's fingers curl around his collar, and Jesus, _Miliband's pulling him in-_

They both sort of end up leaning against the back of the sofa. Well, they're _on_ the sofa, David manages to note through the sudden feverish press of mouths, and the scratch of a half-bitten nail against his neck. But they're pressed into the back now, neither of them able to keep themselves upright, and that thought makes David's trousers suddenly almost painfully tight.

God. He's kissing Miliband but both hands are holding his face now, and he wants to kiss more, more of him, _God-_

"Can-" he manages through heaving breaths and then he sucks at Miliband's bottom lip nervously, moves to the corner of his mouth.

* * *

Ed can't think.

He's just-

Every time he tries to grasp a thought, it flutters loose between his fingers.

God, Cameron's good at kissing.

Cameron's mouth is warm and smooth and soft. There've been times when Ed's thought he's known Cameron's mouth better than his own, the amount of time he's spent sitting in the Commons with his eyes fixed on Cameron's face, studying him, but God, he's so-

Cameron's first few kisses had been nervous and hesitant into Ed's own, and the sheer fact of _that_ had left Ed breathless, because God, just Cameron _opening his mouth_ against Ed's, Ed's tongue tracing inside, like this is the closest thing they could do-

Ed's never kissed someone like this.

It's never been like this. It's always been mouths moving together, too warm, too wet, trying to tilt his head the right way, thoughts fumbling together- _should I open my mouth more, should I, God, I should be working, God, how long is this meant to last, am I meant to just know when to stop, how the hell do you know when to stop, Jesus, this is way too close, those figures are brilliant, they'll make mincemeat out of Cameron on Wednesday-_

One of Cameron's hands slides round into Ed's hair and he kisses him slower now, deeper. His tongue coaxes at Ed's mouth and Ed's lips part without even thinking, with a sound like a groan in his throat. He's achingly hard, his hips circling against nothing.

Kissing-kissing Cameron-

His thoughts are gone. The constant background mumble of facts and statistics to be crafted into an argument, into a speech, into a campaign, have quieted into a low, incoherent murmur, punctuated with different words leaping out every now and then, _yes, there, that's good, more-_

It's all mouths and hot, rapid breath and hands-

It's Cameron's mouth, Cameron's hands-

Ed's fingers are in Cameron's hair. He's trailing them through it, wanting to bury his face in it, inhale him, and every so often, his fingers will find the bald spot that Cameron's hair is usually carefully combed back over, and a wild, mischievous giggle almost rises in Ed's throat, because God, that's, that's-

Cameron makes a little jerking movement and a moan when Ed's fingers tighten in his hair, tugging a little. Ed's half-jolted out of the slow kissing, wondering if he's hurt him, if he should say sorry, if he should stop, and then Cameron lets out a little moaning sound that makes Ed's toes curl pleasurably and his whole body shudders, and then his fingers tighten again and Cameron gasps, the sound threaded with a thin, high-pitched disbelieving sound- _oh God, I made him gasp, I'm making David fucking Cameron fucking gasp and moan and, and,_ and his hand's tightening in his hair, and-

Ed kisses him deeper. He doesn't think about it, doesn't even plan it out. He just winds his arms around David Cameron, one in his hair, one on his back, and kisses him slowly, deeply, tongue exploring his mouth, relishing it. Cameron's tongue meets his, his head tilting, and they kiss slower, deeper, softer.

Ed's breathless. He keeps his eyes closed, and then Cameron sucks at his bottom lip gently and Ed's body gives a little wriggle and he makes a sound in his throat that might have been a cry if Cameron's mouth hadn't been there to catch it.

Ed splutters what sounds like a _th-sorry_ , his head spinning, and then Cameron's making a _shh_ sound into his mouth, or maybe he's just whispering, and then he's kissing at the corner of Ed's mouth, then his jaw.

Ed's eyes stare wildly over David's shoulder, his body twitching with each kiss. He doesn't know where to look, where to put his hands, one digging into Cameron's back, and he finds himself staring at the shutters, at the occasional rushing flickers of headlights over the top, trying to scrabble for any coherent thought to bring him back to earth, and then Cameron kisses the top of his jaw and Ed jumps at the _sogoodsogood_ tickling pleasure it sends through him.

Cameron kisses higher, over skin below his ear, then a little higher, those same jolts of pleasure quivering through Ed's body, so he can hear little high-pitched noises pealing from his throat, and his eyes catch a wild glimpse of the TV screen, and then Cameron's mouth finds itself right beneath Ed's ear, in a spot that's usually tucked under his collar, safely away from the world, and-

Ed moans. Really moans, loudly, even before that almost sweetly unbearable tickle hits him, and his head almost falls back, but Cameron's hands are holding him in place, and the moan vibrates into Cameron's shoulder, and Ed's fingers are curling into David's shirt.

 _"Ah-"_ The sound comes out of his mouth, embarrassingly breathy and frantic and just _needing_ -and then Cameron sucks at his skin.

Colours explode behind Ed's eyelids. He's always thought this was a myth, he manages to think vaguely, and then he's gasping, his body cringing away and curling into Cameron's warm, wet mouth on that spot at the same time, into that electric, tingling-

Ed's hands are fists in the back of Cameron's shirt. His face is rubbing back and forth into Cameron's shirt, forehead pressing into his collar, breathing him in, teeth almost biting into the material, leaving it wet and ragged, and he can feel Cameron grin against his neck for a moment, _that fucking grin right against his neck_ , and that thought sends an almost painful jolt of arousal to Ed's, Ed's-

Cameron kisses again, warm and soft. The low moan that is pulled from Ed's mouth feels wonderful, as does the feeling that his thoughts are slowly being pulled apart into long, syrupy strands of _oh, so good, oh, so, so good, Cameron, Cameron, please, more_ , melting slowly inside. His hips are wriggling and his body's jumping and gasping, helpless, looking for some sort of friction, and then his hips find Cameron's hipbone, Ed's leg almost angled over him, and the contact sends an ache of pleasure through him. Ed's body wriggles harder, breathing heavier, clinging to Cameron, and again, and again, harder, harder, _more...._

* * *

David's losing it.

He tries to slow himself down, gentle his mouth against Ed's, kissing his way back to it clumsily, up his jaw first, pressing his hands into his cheeks to slow them both down, taking long, deep breaths, trying to untangle his thoughts, even for a second.

But Miliband's mouth is hot and open and needing against his-God, it's like Miliband's trying to _wrestle_ his way into his mouth, for God's sake-and the way he's just _gasping_ , Jesus, it's like Miliband's never kissed anyone like this before-

Miliband makes a low, sweet sound in his throat. A jolt of pleasure lances through David, and he gasps himself, aware suddenly of the press of something hard against his hip-

_OhGodohgodohfuckthat'sthat's-_

David's whole body jumps as he realises, his stomach dropping, yanking his breath with it. His hands scrabble, press into Miliband's back, tug him closer. Miliband moans softly and David feels a thrill rush through him, almost but not entirely like the almost-shudder he feels at PMQs when he sees Miliband's mouth hanging open, scrabbling for words, or Miliband shaking his head, face wreathed helplessly in a laugh, and he holds Miliband tight, his own eyes closing, and his mouth's pressing into the warm skin of Miliband's neck again, and this time, Miliband lets out a long, growling sound that reverberates through David's whole body.

"God" he hears one of them breathe, and he's not even sure who, and he can feel Miliband's movements starting to quicken, less rhythmic, more frantic. David can't catch his breath, can't keep his hands still and he keeps going, every beat of his heart thundering through him, as his teeth nip gently at Miliband's neck, _come on, come on_ , as he wraps his legs tighter around Miliband's waist, urges him with each rock of his own body, _that's it, come on, come on, a-almost, oh God-_

" _Miliband."_ The word spills from his mouth in a shattering little gasp and then he feels Ed freeze against him and David could kick himself.

* * *

"Ed."

Ed doesn't dare look up at him. He stays still, face buried in his shoulders, as though somehow, if he stays there long enough, this might not be real.

"Ed." Cameron's arms move around his shoulders and he pulls himself closer in, only for Ed to make a frantic, choking sound and jerk back.

"Ed-" David's voice is cautious, as though Ed's a cat he doesn't want to spook. "Ed-I-Ed-look, this isn't a big-deal-"

Ed shakes his head, fingers gripping into his own hair as he sinks forward, trying to ignore the very obvious tent of his jeans.

Oh God.

Oh _God._

What the hell was he-

Oh my _God._

He rips himself away from the sofa, half-leaping across the room, one hand still digging into his hair.

 _"Fuck."_ He spits the word out for lack of anything else to do, and he spins away from Cameron, who's watching him with those dark blue eyes over redder, just-kissed lips, and oh _God-_

"Jesus" he says, and then "Fuck. _Fuck."_

His voice cracks, embarrassingly tear-logged.

He half-turns away from Cameron, hiding his face, but he can already hear him getting up.

"Miliband-" Even without turning, he knows Cameron's moving closer. "Miliband. Hey-"

Ed presses himself further into his hands, as if he could hide between his fingers.

"Miliband." Cameron's voice is uncertain, far more than it should be. "We can stop. It's all right."

Ed makes a half-jerking movement of his shoulders as he shakes his head.

But he does shake his head.

Because that's the awful bloody thing, and when Cameron reaches out to touch his shoulder, Ed flinches away.

They both freeze.

"Thorry" Ed mumbles to thin air, and prays without believing in it that Cameron won't reach for him again, won't make him pull away from him again, won't, won't-

He doesn't, and eventually it's Ed who turns to face him, and he's not sure if that's better or worse or neither.

* * *

David could really bloody kick himself. A hundred times over.

"Are you all right?" is what he says to Miliband, voice softer, as Miliband's eyes roam around, wide and panicked.

Miliband gives him a quick, sharp nod, then drops his head forward. "Thorry."

David has to resist the urge to shake his own head.

A few minutes ago, Miliband was telling him he couldn't stand him. Now he's giving him an apology with his head down and his eyes on the floor, and those bloody-

"W-what for?"

Oh God, he's stuttering. He's _stuttering._

"Um-" Miliband's looking anywhere but at him, his face putting the setting sun to shame. "What I-that-that-"

 _Practically getting off against my hip,_ David thinks before he can stop himself, and he can tell from the expression that crosses Miliband's face that he's not the only one.

"I-"

"It's all right." David says it before he can think about it.

Miliband's head jerks up sharply. "What do you mean, _it'th all right?"_

David stares at him. "Well-you know-it's-I'm not-"

"It'th not-Jethuth _Chritht-_ thith ith-ith-"

Miliband looks as though he can't even remember his own name.

"I-I wanted to-" Miliband's eyes widen at his own words. He makes a spluttering sound and turns away.

"You _thaid_ it wath political" he says, almost in an accusatory tone. Almost a little like despair.

It takes David a moment to say the words. "It can be."

Miliband gives him another hurried, snatched look. David walks slowly back to the sofa, lowers himself onto it without looking away from Miliband once. He sits, slowly, quietly, and he waits.

Several seconds pass. Miliband stands there, face angled away from him, chest rising and falling sharply, shoulders trembling.

Abruptly, Miliband swings round. He almost storms towards the sofa, hands curled into fists at his side.

David stares at him, mouth half-opening, and Ed Miliband scrambles up onto the sofa next to him, takes his face in his hands, and presses his mouth into David's.

* * *

Ed kisses him clumsily, carelessly. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands into Cameron's cheeks and tries not to listen, tries to just force his mouth-

"Hey." Cameron's hands fasten very gently around Ed's shoulders, bringing him to a stop, even as Ed splutters for breath. "Hey. Hey."

Ed stares at him, and then looks away, shame curling in his stomach. "I-"

"Ed-"

Ed abruptly wriggles round, trying to face away from him. "You don't have to-I'm not- _keeping_ you here" he barks out, to his own embarrassment. "I-it was _you_ who wanted to do thith-"

He doesn't get any further because then is when Cameron's hand presses itself to his cheek.

That's all it does, just one quick touch, and Ed loses his words with that.

"I'm not angry right now" Cameron says slowly, as though feeling his way through the words himself.

Ed stares at him. "OK."

Cameron just looks at him, and then slowly leans in, and just tilts his mouth to Ed's very softly, giving Ed all the time in the world to pull away.

He kisses Ed slowly, deeply. Ed loses his breath, his eyelids fluttering, and then David's tongue gently opens his mouth and Ed hears himself sigh, his eyes closing, and then they kiss.

That's all they do. Ed's thoughts are quiet murmurs at the back of his mind. The rest of him has become mouth and arms and hands. One of David's arms is wrapping slowly around Ed's waist, and it should feel stupid or patronising or-

But it doesn't. Ed's own hands are moving all over Cameron, one crawling up to his collar, fingers stroking his hair, the soft skin of his neck. Cameron jumps, and Ed feels a thrill that makes them gasp into each other's mouths again, and in that second, he feels so close to Cameron that he trembles.

* * *

David kisses him slowly, deeply, tongues caressing each other, and he lets himself _enjoy_ it, for God's sake, because he's going to, he's decided very suddenly, he's going to, because they both bloody _deserve_ it, frankly, he's going to let himself _enjoy_ this, even if it's just for a few minutes-

Because that's the thing. The thing he hasn't been able to say to himself, even when he was saying it to Ed earlier today in the cloakroom, when Miliband turned round with that look on his face.

_I liked kissing you._

Because he does. He does.

God knows what that means, but David's only snatching at scraps of coherent thought now, in between the warmth of Miliband's mouth, and the press of his hands into Miliband's cheeks, and those little sounds he makes between kisses, those ragged, panting, blissful sounds-

They keep kissing. David tries to keep his thoughts something close to coherent, but-

It's hard. Very hard, even as he tries to remind himself to just kiss him, tries not to let his hands wander any further down Miliband's back, tries to ignore the growing, insistent ache in his body that is urging him to move closer, to feel the pressure of Miliband's hips against his own again, even if only for a second-

He manages to keep still, but his fingers comb through Miliband's soft, dark hair, and he kisses him softer, then the corner of his mouth, and he whispers "This is better than arguing with you."

* * *

Ed shivers at the words grazing his skin, scrabbles for some of his own, but then Cameron kisses him again, mouths opening, and Ed hears himself make a low, moaning sound in the back of his throat as Cameron's thumb brushes a spot behind Ed's ear that makes him shudder in surprise.

Cameron smiles and cranes his head round as though he's going to murmur in Ed's ear, and then starts to kiss his neck very lightly. Ed jumps and then Cameron's lips just start to nuzzle that spot over and over, Ed's breaths getting shakier with each touch, until his head tilts back of his own accord, his eyes fluttering closed.

Cameron's not moving from that spot. He's treating it exactly the way he does with one of his claims when they're debating, and he just won't _stop_ , saying it over and over, and that thought, noticing the way Cameron's breathing exactly the way he does when they're arguing, hard and fierce and _needing_ , like he's trying to drag oxygen out of the arguments, and that just sends a _rush_ of sensation straight to Ed's groin, and he lets out a louder moan of surprise.

He feels colour flood his cheeks, but Cameron just smiles-Ed feels it against his neck, and God, that makes Ed shudder, too. Cameron kisses softer, deeper, sucks gently, and nuzzles, and Ed is gasping for breath, fingers grasping at the back of Cameron's shirt. Ed whimpers at the tickling pleasure from Cameron's mouth, nuzzling and kissing, his nose pressed into Cameron's jaw, and his mouth pushes itself into Cameron's neck, pressing an almost timid kiss into his skin, and then when he feels Cameron's breath catch, he does it again, longer.

He purses his lips, nuzzling very gently at Cameron's skin. Cameron's mouth presses harder into Ed's own neck, and then his teeth scrape a little, sending electric sparks through his body, from his neck to his collarbone to his-

* * *

They're kissing again for a moment, before David moves his mouth back to Ed's neck, grinning at the jolt of surprise through Ed's body, at managing to wrongfoot him, feeling that fond curl in his chest. He buries his face in the crook of Ed's neck, murmuring without even recognizing the words.

"What?" he hears Miliband murmur back, breathless and frantic, and his pulse suddenly rapid against David's mouth.

"I-nothing-maybe-I-" David feels suddenly wrongfooted himself.

"You said beautiful." Ed's voice is small, almost quavering. "You thaid-"

David swallows. "D-did I?"

Miliband stares at him, and David, suddenly unable to wait for him to speak, presses his mouth to Ed's almost desperately.

What he doesn't expect is for Miliband's hands to come up to cup his cheeks again, and for him to return the kiss in exactly the same way, their noses pressing together for a moment, and David groans softly, lets his arms wrap around Miliband, tilts his head and kisses him longer. This time, it's definitely better than arguing, both of them breathing hard, kissing much slower now, much deeper.

Something buzzes vaguely, almost too quiet to hear. David just kisses harder, barely listening, and Miliband's mouth opens too, but then he frowns against David's mouth and David hears a protesting little moan rise in his throat as Miliband pulls away, murmuring into David's mouth, "No, no, wait-"

David takes a deep breath, fighting for control as he leans back, Miliband rummaging in his pocket, as he pulls out his phone, stares at the screen. His hair's a mess, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth, swollen and pouting and-David has to breathe slowly, deeply, and look away to prevent himself from crushing their mouths back together.

"Oh-oh God, it'th-" Miliband tugs at his earlobe, bites his lip. "Wh-it'th Justine, she'll-she'll be home th-soon-" He glances up, blinking rapidly at David, looking stricken, which doesn't help David to ignore his thoughts about kissing him.

"Ah." He drags his hand through his hair, struggles for some clarity of thought. "I-yes. Yes, I-of course-of course, I'll-"

"Yeah, yeah-" Miliband's chest is rising and falling, his eyes darting. "I-yeah, I-"

David takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. "I-we didn't-" He's only now really becoming aware that, for all he and Miliband have talked about this, for all they've bloody _kissed on the sofa_ like a pair of bloody _teenagers_ , for God's sake, they haven't actually come to a decision about what to _do._

"Um." David would love to phrase this a little more eloquently or wittily or downright _intelligently_ but he's got little time, and he's all too aware of it, and Miliband's just _looking_ at him, and so David just blurts it out.

"Do you want to come to my office, tomorrow? I-we need to-I need to-ask you-some-things."

David wants to curl into the sofa the moment he hears the words.

Jesus, what the hell is happening to him? He wasn't this bad when he was an _actual_ teenager, for God's sake.

Miliband is staring at him. "I-um-"

David can't hear him say no. "Oh, and the boys are invited to Chequers on Saturday."

Miliband stares at him, then blinks. "Th-sorry, _what?"_

* * *

Ed genuinely wonders if he's heard him correctly.

It doesn't help that some of his thoughts are roaming over and over again to Cameron's mouth and that his head's still spinning and somehow he's holding his phone and he's not sure how and-

"You and the boys" Cameron says, sounding almost determinedly casual. "And Justine too, of course. You're all welcome at Chequers on Saturday. It's Elwen's birthday, he's nine."

Ed blinks. "I-you-"

Cameron's inviting him-

Cameron's just-

Sat and _kissed him_ and _stroked him_ and _run his hands over him_ , and, and-

Ed has no doubt he's blushing furiously.

And now, he's just inviting him to a birthday party like it's a perfectly normal evening and the two of them have done nothing more than have a cup of tea together.

And not just any birthday party. One of their bloody _kids'_ birthday parties.

With their kids there-

With their _wives_ there.

Ed's stomach plunges.

Samantha. Samantha will be there, and she knows, she _knows,_ oh _God-_

"Ahhhh-" Ed's gripping a cushion very tightly.

"If you don't _want_ to come, Miliband, you have only to _say-"_

Ed tells himself it's the words that make him swallow, rather than the composed look he can see trying to rearrange itself across David Cameron's face, a mask he can always pull apart with his fingers.

"I mean-" He swallows quickly, shifts on the sofa to angle himself a little further away from Cameron. "I'll-I'll check, I'll-I'll let you know, tomorrow-"

Oh God, he hasn't even given Cameron an answer about _tomorrow_ , yet.

But Cameron, instead of pressing the point, just stares at him for a long moment, head on one side, before suddenly clapping his hands on his thighs, making Ed jump slightly. "Right. Well, I'd-I'd better be-"

"Oh-yeth-yeth, of courthe-"

Ed almost falls over his own feet as he scrambles upright. His elbow brushes Cameron's, and they both jump, hastily gathering themselves away from each other.

"I-um"- Ed gestures helplessly to the door, and Cameron follows his hand, managing to make it look as natural as he does anything.

(Except for those first few kisses, the way his mouth almost fluttered against Ed's own in nervousness.)

"Well-" Cameron's voice is lower now as they move into the hallway. Cameron glances towards the stairs almost automatically, as though expecting to see someone there.

"Oh-" He tugs something out of his pocket, hands it to Ed. "Here-"

Ed looks down at it blankly. "I'm-"

"Cream. From earlier."

"Oh." Ed flexes his fingers experimentally, then again, surprised at how much easier it feels. "Oh. Th-thanks."

"You-" Cameron looks uncharacteristically awkward as he leans forward, tapping the pot cautiously with a finger. "It-um-well, the instructions are all there" he blurts out, a little too quickly. "Just-if you put it on every few hours, the, the pain should-"

"R-right-" Ed's words seem to have become too big for his throat. "Right. Th-thankth for that-"

"It's _your_ cream" Cameron points out, with a ghost of his usual grin.

"Oh-yeah-"

"Common ownership applying to your medications now, Miliband?"

Ed rolls his eyes. "Privatising the medical supply already, are you, Camer-"

He doesn't get to finish, because at that moment, David takes Ed's face in both of his hands and kisses him.

It's not like before. There's something new, and even though their mouths meet each other eagerly, heated and open, abruptly, everything gentles, and Cameron's hand cradles his cheek and tilts his head and then Cameron's lips just linger very softly on Ed's own for a long, sweet, almost chaste kiss.

When Cameron pulls back, blinking slightly, as though he's not quite sure what he just did, he presses his nose to Ed's once, very gently, almost like a nuzzle.

Ed stares at him. The sentence he was about to complete with devastating effect has, very inconveniently, vanished from his brain.

"I-"

Cameron just stares at him. His blue eyes-they're even bluer this close, dear God-narrow, almost wince, as though something causes him a brief physical pain, before they open wide and his thumb moves almost restlessly over Ed's cheekbone.

"Come and see me tomorrow" and Cameron's voice cracks a little on the last word, which sends a shudder through Ed, makes his own hand want to-

"Please."

The word, soft and almost whispered, makes Ed's breath catch.

"I-"

He can't find words. He-

_It's just political._

Cameron's eyes start to flicker away, his shoulders slumping.

Ed nods.

Cameron looks back at him slowly. His face is carefully composed, lips set, but there's no disguising the way his eyes blaze blue, the way he trembles slightly, as though something's lighting him up from the inside.

But all he says is a quick, breathed "OK."

Ed stares at him. Cameron stares back.

Cameron only then seems to notice his hand's still brushing Ed's cheek, and he snatches it back quickly. "Right, well, I'd-"

He gestures to the door. There's a definite flush of colour in his cheeks.

"Yeah." Ed's voice doesn't sound like his own. _(Is_ it his own?)

Cameron nods, a quick jerk. "Right. So I'll-"

He reaches behind him, fumbles the door open cautiously, with a glance back at Ed. Their breath catches.

The corner of Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly. _God, I've kissed that mouth._

"Bye" Cameron says, with a flicker of his more familiar mischievous grin, and then he ducks out of the door. It closes too quickly behind him.

Ed stands still, staring at the other side of it.

"Bye" he says, his own voice a whisper, and he stands there for several minutes.

_It's only political._

Slowly, Ed turns for the stairs. He moves, without really thinking about where, until he reaches the spare bedroom, which is becoming more and more familiar these days, and then, pushing the door closed behind him, he flops down on the bed.

He's still dressed and he can see the orange light from the street lamps peeking through the slats of the blinds.

Justine will be home soon. He hasn't replied to her. Maybe she'll think he's asleep.

And it's only political.

But for now, Ed lies flat on his back, hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling, a smile that's rapidly becoming a grin playing about his mouth, even as his heart still pounds, as his eyes flicker closed, and just for a while, he lets himself think about David Cameron.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Hounds Of Love-Kate Bush _ _-"When I was a child/Running in the night/Afraid of what might be/Hiding in the dark/Hiding in the street/And of what was following me/Now hounds of love are hunting/I've always been a coward/And I don't know what's good for me/Here I go! It's coming for me through the trees!/Help me, someone, help me, please!/Take my shoes off/And throw them in the lake...His little heart, it beats so fast!/And I'm ashamed of running away/Nothing's real, I just can't deal with this/I'm still afraid to be there/Among your hounds of love/And feel your arms surround me/I've always been a coward/I never know what's good for me"_

_Let's Kiss-LIVING DAYS-" Heard you call in a long, long hall/I heard you call, I heard you call/Let's kiss, oh, let's kiss..."_

_Follow The Cops Back Home-Placebo -"And now we're stuck on rewind/Let's follow the cops back home/Let's follow the cops back home...The call to arms was never true/Let's take a ride and push it through/Suspended animation glue"-this was playing when I was writing the scene where Ed is sitting on Hampstead Heath._

_I Want The One I Can't Have-The Smiths -"On the day that your mentality/Tries to catch up with your biology, comes round/'Cause I want the one I can't have/And it's driving me mad!/It's all over, all over, all over my face....I want the one I can't have/And it's driving me mad!/It's written all over my face"_

_Smitten With You-Nicole Dollanganger -"When I see you I can't find the words to speak/My cheeks go as red as Cupid cherries/I try to look beautiful for you/Stuffing my dress up with tissues/Hoping you'll notice/But it's obvious and I get so embarrassed/I'm so smitten with you and everyone knows it"._

_Transatlanticism-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"I need you so much closer/I need you so much closer/I need you so much closer/I need you so much closer/So come onnnn/So come onnnnn/I need you so much closer"_

_She-Dodie Clark -"I'd never tell/No, I'd never say a word/And oh, it aches/But it feels oddly good to hurt/She smells like lemongrass and sleep/She tastes like apple juice and peach/You would find her in a Polaroid picture/And she means everything to me/She means everything to me"_

_Nuit Avec Une Amie-Standard Fare -"You leave your shoes on the floor/You leave your coat on the door_/ _You tell me this is what you wanted and more/So why do I believe you?/You go to fix us a drink/You lie down on the sofa/You're still trying it on/You're still thinking it over/And I'm dying to believe you/How did we let this get this far?/How did we let this get this far?/You're dimming the lights/You're drawing the curtains/Will this happen tonight?/Oh, you seem so certain/So why don't I believe you?.. I see your eyes digress/Is this how it starts?/...How did we let this get this far?/How did we let this get this far and why did you say those words that I know you never meant/Because I took them all to heart and this just made less sense...Go, girl, you know you shouldn't be here/You could say no and make this so much easier"_

 _Fine Lines-Samantha Savage Smith _ _-"You call it a fine line/That we've got to walk and watch out for/...You say that I'm something/But this is all nothing/How can we stop when we can barely start?/Don't go now/Don't go now/Why don't you stay for a while?/Don't go now/Don't go now/Why don't you stay for a while?/If you let me go, will you let me know/This time?/If you fall in love, will you let it show?/This life?/Now that we're fighting and we're feeling/And I'm pulling all the cheap shots/I thought that you're leaving when you're staying/And I thought those stupid thoughts/You say that I'm something/But this is all something/How can we stop when we can barely start?/Don't go now/Don't go now/Why don't you stay for a while?"_

 _Heart Out-The 1975 _ _-"'Cause I'm running low on know-how/This beat's made for two/'Cause I remember that I like you/No matter what I found/She said it's nice to have your friends round/We're watching a television with no sound/It's just you and I tonight/Why don't you figure my heart out?/It's just you and I tonight?/Why don't you figure my heart out?/Push your lack of chest out, look at my hair/Gotta love the way you love yourself..."'Cause I remember when I found you/Much younger than you are now..You created a television in your mouth/It's just you and I tonight/Why don't you figure my heart out?/It's just you and I tonight/Why don't you figure my heart out/If you've got something to say/Why don't you speak it out loud/Instead of living in your head?/It's always to say/Why don't you take your heart out/Instead of living in your head?"_

 _Settle Down-The 1975 _ _-"But you're losing your words/We're speaking in bodies/Avoiding me and talking 'bout you/But you're losing your turn/I guess I'll never learn/'Cause I stay another hour or two/For crying out loud! Settle down!/You know I can't be found with you!/We get back to my house/Your arms, my mouth"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George and David on the train:https://tinyurl.com/wkc8q3p  
> https://tinyurl.com/yx43af2r  
> https://tinyurl.com/u3vcko6  
> https://tinyurl.com/tcbn25c  
> https://tinyurl.com/sgjvt7s  
> https://tinyurl.com/sp2c67e  
> https://tinyurl.com/uu6xyvs  
> https://tinyurl.com/sg4nzzj  
> https://tinyurl.com/vq4jc6s  
> https://tinyurl.com/towqslu  
> Ed's time at school:http://dailym.ai/2UlMYA9  
> Ed's visit to Haverstock:https://tinyurl.com/v4w2k7u  
> https://tinyurl.com/rt2f3lt  
> https://tinyurl.com/ujpnkub  
> https://tinyurl.com/yxyrr6fh  
> https://tinyurl.com/rxkx9w6  
> https://tinyurl.com/tvaugnj  
> https://tinyurl.com/wg92nrh  
> https://tinyurl.com/txn9s6v  
> https://tinyurl.com/wvmw47u  
> Ed and the tax avoidance:https://tinyurl.com/sez8up3  
> https://tinyurl.com/k7o4yyt  
> https://tinyurl.com/s85cuvc  
> Ed's PMQs flashback:https://tinyurl.com/wvmw47u  
> Claire's comment about Bercow:https://tinyurl.com/y93o846t  
> The bullying claims were later backed up by others:https://tinyurl.com/vx5kb4n  
> https://tinyurl.com/y5cpvqwm  
> https://tinyurl.com/uso9bz6  
> Bercow was Dave's tennis partner:https://tinyurl.com/shgde42  
> Ed being uninterested in sex/romance:https://tinyurl.com/wtsddwb  
> George's day school, which he sent his kids to:https://tinyurl.com/wrdqlfo  
> https://tinyurl.com/tunnvuo  
> https://tinyurl.com/r3zdf6c  
> https://tinyurl.com/tpfskva  
> The Members' Cloakroom:https://tinyurl.com/rt3r7c5  
> https://tinyurl.com/ucv93mj  
> The HOC sauna:https://tinyurl.com/tqu8sar  
> David and Hugo's friendship:https://tinyurl.com/s2xhr9b  
> The pubs mentioned:https://tinyurl.com/yx7547dp  
> https://tinyurl.com/t6ddvu4  
> Liz was Ed's first girlfriend:https://tinyurl.com/rdgwbah  
> Ed wanting a graduate tax:https://tinyurl.com/r9n6omf  
> Justine's green waterproof and cycling:https://tinyurl.com/vc8jhzl  
> Sam's keenness on interior design:https://tinyurl.com/tj46ayp  
> https://bit.ly/2UERgBF  
> Attlee being Churchill's pallbearer:https://tinyurl.com/sq68fbw  
> Nick and Miriam were very protective of their children's privacy-Miriam criticised Ed and Justine for the amount they had their kids filmed:https://tinyurl.com/wqccwcw  
> https://tinyurl.com/u4kmfbo  
> https://tinyurl.com/sllcp8b  
> https://tinyurl.com/tunzgcu  
> https://tinyurl.com/tuplq7k  
> The hallway in Downing Street:https://bit.ly/2QNuu9B  
> Florence being a cheerful baby:https://tinyurl.com/vnofch4  
> https://tinyurl.com/scjua5m  
> Milly Dowler was a thirteen-year-old girl who was abducted and murdered in 2002, and whose phone, it was later discovered, had been hacked by the News Of The World in a quest for stories during the time she was missing. It was this revelation, chiefly, that triggered the Leveson Inquiry. Milly's murderer, a serial killer, was not found guilty of her murder until 2011-the trial triggered debate over the tactics of defence barristers, due to the distressing interrogations of Milly's family in court. You can read more about the case/scandals here (TW: some articles contain distressing details).  
> https://bit.ly/39icnze  
> http://dailym.ai/2QOWQk1  
> https://tinyurl.com/ky2x9n9  
> https://tinyurl.com/84e58ar  
> https://tinyurl.com/ttkqjv4  
> https://tinyurl.com/wuert9h  
> https://tinyurl.com/vzg5u4m  
> https://tinyurl.com/ww9s5wk  
> https://tinyurl.com/twcec3o  
> https://tinyurl.com/w7yvba2  
> https://tinyurl.com/yx45v2kv  
> https://tinyurl.com/urdf6r8  
> https://tinyurl.com/wsxz4pj  
> https://tinyurl.com/wbrghe9  
> A documentary: https://tinyurl.com/tpcrbyl  
> If you want to know more about the case, Milly's sister Gemma wrote a book about the crime, the phone-hacking and the wider impact it had on the family, society and politics: https://tinyurl.com/y9s89ac7  
> https://tinyurl.com/uzn39ud  
> https://bbc.in/3amYHEh  
> David and Ed meeting with the Dowlers: https://tinyurl.com/rgtbext  
> https://tinyurl.com/v6tur6t  
> https://tinyurl.com/vtgaxqe  
> https://tinyurl.com/qr6egu7  
> https://tinyurl.com/t5o94pu  
> https://tinyurl.com/vnxatu3  
> https://tinyurl.com/up8v85j  
> https://tinyurl.com/tp6sck6  
> https://tinyurl.com/w6mvk87  
> https://tinyurl.com/yxxwv5m3  
> https://tinyurl.com/t2bld7b


	2. Valentine's Vagaries, Sisterly Suspicions And Windowside Wonderings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which glow-in-the-dark pyjamas are irritating and David was a Good Samaritan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes in this chapter refer to George's encounter with a dominatrix and Nancy's stuffed toy.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

**_Can you remember the first time you actually went into the Commons and sat opposite Mr Cameron?_ **

_(Ed laughs)_

**_Did you feel nervous, actually, on your first time-_ **

_Ed: Definitely._

**_And do you think he knew it?_ **

_Ed (laughing): Definitely! I'm sure he did-I'm sure he did-ermm-I do remember and-err-I remember getting a call from him just after I won the-er-leadership and-because it's a sort of courtesy, the, the-you know, that he rang me to say congratulations and he said "Oooh, you know, we'll be crossing swords-er-in the House of Commons-for-er-Prime Minister's Questions!" and-erm-I think it was a couple of weeks later, yeah....And you're thinking in the, you know, split second of the moment-I must say, I always thought Cameron was good, very good at that, actually. He was very quick on his feet, erm, and-er-you know, whatever my disagreements with him, he was, he was, he was good at the, he, he, he, he, he (bursts out laughing)-he never answered my questions, but he was always good at thinking on his feet!..In fact, I remember William Hague saying to me just after I got the job-of course, William Hague was Leader Of The Opposition some time ago and he said-or, or maybe it was Cameron, I think-one of them said to me, "You'll wake up on a Wednesday when Parliament isn't sitting and you'll think, "Oh, thank goodness I don't have to go to Prime Minister's Questions today!" (laughing)- Ed Miliband speaking about PMQs and his first phone call with David Cameron in 2017_

* * *

_Home was decidedly old-fashioned, if not notably bookish ( **"They are very country"** explains one friend.) Dinner was served upon the return of Ian Cameron promptly at 7:45 pm. His children, once old enough to graduate from tea with their nanny, were expected to display immaculate manners. It was a house, recalls a guest, that still played parlour games. After dinner parties, "the ladies" would withdraw to another room. But the Old Rectory (the family home) was also hospitable, its' swimming pool-the result of a big win on the horses-and tennis court always at the disposal of the childrens' friends...After school, he (David), Alex and Tania would run around in the fields or feed Mary's bantams. As they got older, they would go further afield, encouraging one of their Jack Russells to hunt down rabbit holes. Airguns would be in evidence, too, but despite a profusion of rooks, rabbits and pigeons around the Old Rectory, shooting was carried out-or was meant to be-in a controlled environment. As the boys grew up, they would accompany their father on shoots, often at Wooley Park, the estate of Phillip Wroughton, Lord Lieutenant of Berkshire...The brothers, who shared a room, always got on well, teasing one another and fighting playfully enough. Their sister Tania, sandwiched in between, had to be something of a tomboy if she was to join in the fun or else she played with Clare, six years her junior. An exception to this was horse riding, which Alex and Tania took to with enthusiasm, but which David, at that stage at least, didn't enjoy to the same degree.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Osborne enjoyed his social life no less, carousing with old university friends who were making their way in London. As the News of the World would reveal more than a decade later, he even crossed paths with a professional dominatrix named Natalie Rowe, the partner of William Sinclair, a friend of Osborne's whose gilded life was led wayward by drugs. Rumours that Osborne himself partook in illegal substances and erotic derring-do have never been proven. Friends say that while he **"enjoyed what London has to offer",** he was **"never at the bacchanalian end of things, no way."** The scurrilous speculation misses a more interesting quirk in Osborne's character that had been evident since his time in the Bullingdon Club: he did not appear to be a natural libertine so much as a rather straight individual who sometimes wished he was. Quieter, coyer and less blue-blooded than many in his gang, he often found himself slipping to the sidelines. Friends found him **"endearingly stiff** **"** and racked with a **"shyness that manifested as exaggerated confidence."** Rowe's own account of this period, given to the press again in 2011, has him as a well-meaning wallflower. Those who knew both Osborne and Cameron in their twenties theorise that they were actually social opposites: Osborne a retiring soul who liked to be thought of as wild, and Cameron an innately laddish character happy to be considered inoffensively middle-of-the-road.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Cameron's political persona as a teenager is hard to pin down. It is neatly illustrated by his choice of extra-curricular activity. Boys usually faced a choice between being a member of the Corps, the school's junior army, or undertaking good works in the local community. Cameron did both. He would also go to Windsor, sometimes with a friend, to visit an old lady, a Mrs Creek, and provide her with some company over a cup of tea. The next day, he would shoulder his Eton rifle. -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_Christine Calder, the school matron, says that Heatherlea was no easy place to start (at Heatherdown). **"The pupils only had thin blankets, the ceilings were full height with lino on the floors. The huge sash windows had icicles on the inside in the depths of winter...I must admit looking back now it was an unbearably young age for them to start."..** The last meal, a light supper, could be light indeed. On Thursdays, it consisted of a single block of Weetabix...David Cameron, who admits that he was " **rather tubby"** as a boy, says he " **lost a stone every term because the helpings were so small."** **-** Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_His (David's) formal education began in an institution that was a throwback to a bygone world, a place of chilly dormitories, corporal punishment and Latin verbs. The creature comforts of the Old Rectory would seem very far away...Boys slept in cold dormitories with bare wooden floorboards...There were few luxuries at Heatherdown. The environment was tough. These were the days of corporal punishment, as Cameron Mi learned to his cost. In (an interview) Edwards admitted he was not wholly opposed to administering "the odd thwack"..His tool of choice appears to have been a hairbrush, the sting of which Cameron felt...Speaking about such punishments, Llewellyn says **"The worst thing about it was that it was never done on the spot. It was scheduled for after breakfast the following morning. I was a pupil at the same time as Prince Andrew and he was beaten regularly. But then he was fairly bumptious."** Daniel Wiggin, another former pupil, has spoken of being beaten simply for **"taking my teddy for a walk after lights out."** Far darker forces may have been at work. One of Cameron's former masters was recently exposed as a paedophile. Andrew Sadler, who appears in a formal photograph with Cameron at Heatherdown, was a French teacher. (It is not known whether any former pupils have ever complained about his behaviour)....._

_Some former staff feel, in retrospect, that aspects of the regime were unduly harsh for young children. " **Things have changed so much" C** alder reflects. **"In those days, corporal punishment wasn't frowned upon, and the parents were always in agreement. The view was that if there had been a misdemeanour, it was their fault and they deserved to be punished for it. When I became a mother, I realised I was probably quite hard, quite tough, on children who were really quite small. The thought of sending my own child away to school was horrendous."** -Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_When I tell my children today about the schools I went to, and some of the things that happened in them, it all seems incredibly old-fashioned. For starters, going away to boarding school aged just seven now seems brutal and bizarre. Of course I was homesick at first. I remember having one of those plastic cubes with pictures of my family on that I would look at in bed at night with tears welling up in my eyes....At bath time we had to line up naked in front of a row of Victorian metal baths and wait for the headmaster, James Edwards, to blow a whistle before we got in. Another whistle would indicate that it was time to get out. In between, we would have to cope with clouds of smoke from the omnipresent foul-smelling pipe clenched between his teeth....The food was spartan. I lost a stone in weight during a single term. There was one meal that consisted of curry, rice-and maggots. In the school grounds were woods and a lake where we could play unsupervised in green boilersuits-it is something of a miracle that no one drowned. Punishments were also old-fashioned. They included frequent beatings with the smooth side of an ebony clothes brush. If I shut my eyes I can see myself standing outside the headmaster's study, hearing the ticking of the grandfather's clock and the thwack of the clothes brush on the backside of the boy in front of me, and feeling the dread of what was to follow. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Early in the evening, while Ed was preparing for an appearance on The Andrew Marr Show_ _the following morning, he received a call from David Cameron, who congratulated the new opposition leader. Senior Tories had watched the result on Sky News at Conservative Campaign Headquarters (CCHQ) with interest, cheering when Ed won. Usually, party leaderships bluff about who they fear on the opposite benches. In 2001, Labour briefed that Michael Portillo was the Tory leadership candidate they feared when in fact it was Ken Clarke. But according to a senior Conservative cabinet minister, the Tories had genuinely feared a David Miliband victory and were delighted when the Labour leadership result was announced. On top of this, the breakdown of the result-Ed’s victory on the back of union votes-was a perfect gift to the Tories. Baroness Warsi, the party chair, was immediately authorised to hit the airwaves, highlighting the influential role of the trade unions, at the same time as Cameron was exchanging warm words with Ed. For Ed’s part, he was struck by how_ ** _“posh”_** _Cameron was on the phone, as he later remarked to his staff.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_But we are wary. The results are not due in for another few hours. **I can't take another one of these results nights** , Samantha says to me. I agree. **"This will be our last one. David isn't going to stand again, remember."** We take the seats around the table we had made up for the G8. Nancy, who has insisted on staying up, is perched between David and me, George on the other side. We have set up the computer on the table, which breaks down the results we need to get, area by area._

_Newcastle upon Tyne declares first-a win for us, but not a big one, making us slightly nervous. This is followed by a decisive victory for Leave in Sunderland (61 per cent to 39 per cent.) More results start trickling through. Most just miss the mark for a Remain win. It is beginning to look like a trend. We remain positive though, hoping that the worm will turn when the results come through for the southern cities-especially London. Nancy is marking them off. **"Another bad result, Dad"** she says. And another. John Curtice says Brexit now looks the most likely result. Morale plummets._

_**"Dad, we're losing"** says Nancy. David is tense but maintaining total calm. Finally, defeated by exhaustion, Nancy slips in to her sleeping bag, which she has positioned under the table. But she can't sleep without her childhood cuddly toy, which is duly fetched from upstairs.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

* * *

_Katie's mouth goes dry and the first thing she thinks is It isn't normal. Immediately, she pushes the thought away, because it doesn't matter, normal. She wouldn't even know where to fucking look to find normal."-Elizabeth Gone, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_But you're losing your words/We're speaking in bodies/Avoiding me and talking 'bout you/But you're losing your turn/I guess I'll never learn/'Cos I stay another hour or two_

_ -Settle Down, The 1975 _

_""I still didn't get what she was talking about, so I just said "You're weird for fifteen."_

_"Ha. You sound like an adult."_

_I frowned. "You're the one being patronising as fuck."_

_"You get sweary when you're drunk."_

_"I'm always sweary inside my head."_

_"Everyone's different inside their head."_

_"You're so...."" -Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_"I want to pull this car over and say all the things we haven't said yet. I want to scream at him, what the fuck is this relationship, what are we doing, why do I care more about you than I do even about my missing animals, why have you gotten your way into my head when I can't have you right now, when I probably can't have you ever because I am a fifteen-year-old torn to shreds, do I just feel this because you're crazy, is it just because you're crazy and I need to fix a crazy boy, is all of this just because I need to fix something and holy mother of God, Lio, can I fix you -Gone, Gone, Gone, Hannah Moskowitz_

* * *

"So, did you and Miliband do it, then?"

David almost chokes on his coffee.

"What?" he manages, once he's cleared his throat enough to speak coherently. "No-I- _what?"_

Nick gives him an odd look as he gathers his files from the armchair. "Straighten out your-" Nick pauses for barely a second. "Disagreement? After PMQs?"

David eyes him suspiciously. Nick stares back, looking entirely innocent.

Not, as David casts his mind back to the 2010 negotiations, that that necessarily means anything.

"Um-" He knows Nick will have noticed the fumble, knows that if he goes for overly casual, overly formal, none of it will escape Nick's notice. "Yeah. Mostly. Enough for the moment, anyway." David knows when to stop himself, how not to give himself away by letting his words teeter dangerously into too much detail.

Nick watches him, eyes narrowing very slightly. But then all he says is "Good", as though David never caught the look at all.

David waits until he's absolutely sure that Nick's down the corridor before he lets his head sink into his hands with a groan.

It had felt almost wrong to invite Miliband _here_ , to his Downing Street office. But the only other option was the one in the Commons and given what happened last time-

David feels himself blush and carefully averts his gaze from the mirror.

Miliband would have panicked, he tells himself firmly. He couldn't even keep from scalding himself in his own house, for God's sake. They'd have been lucky to even get into the room.

If Miliband turns up at all.

David rests his head on his hands and wonders which possibility to dread most.

* * *

Ed's daydream had only lasted five minutes before reality had started to sink in.

Then he'd spent approximately ten minutes with his head buried in the pillow, trying very hard not to scream.

Because-

_What was he thinking?_

_What the fuck was he thinking?_

He'd-

He'd just-

He'd- _arranged to meet-_

Ed had stifled a small, frantic crack of a laugh. As if the _arranging to meet him-_

Ed had moaned into the pillow, gripping it tightly, like he could climb inside.

Jesus, what if it was-

Just all some-

_For God's sake, Miliband. I'd have far more to bloody lose than you, wouldn't I?_

Yeah, Cameron had _said_ that, but what if he was just bluffing?

What if he knew Ed would never tell anyone anyway?

What if he-

So now, Ed's been sitting outside David Cameron's office for at least ten minutes, offering the slightly suspicious gaze of Kate something that probably resembles a seasick smile, trying to tell himself to get up and knock on the door.

* * *

David looks at the clock. Waits.

That's it.

Miliband's not coming.

And OK.

All right.

That's fine.

That's absolutely fine.

That means-

David gets up from his desk as calmly as possible. He bites his lip for a moment, yanks his suit closer around him.

Miliband's not coming.

That's fine.

He'll just go for a run-he'll call Matt and see if he's got a free slot. He'll go for a run and he'll come back and have a hot shower and then he'll go upstairs and have lunch with Sam and by then, he'll be able to just put this whole ridiculous, stupid-

It's fine.

It's absolutely fine.

Miliband's obviously decided that he doesn't want to talk about it, and-

And that is absolutely-

David opens the door, and, as he reassures himself once again that he is, in fact, most certainly absolutely fine with never speaking to Ed Miliband again outside of a debating chamber, the aforementioned Ed Miliband does in fact leap upright in front of him, nearly sending their foreheads crashing into each other.

"Jesus _Christ_!" David almost jumps out of his skin, slamming a hand over his chest. "Miliband."

Miliband jumps back a little. "I-uh-"

He's doing the startled-panda look. All big dark eyes and silver streak in his hair and rapid, fluttering blinking.

"I-I didn't mean-I-um-"

"No. No! That's-that's fine!" David hears his voice leap up, even as he very firmly forces his arms back to his sides. "It's fine, it's fine, it's-I-um-"

"I wath jutht-" Ed glances away, then wraps his arms around himself. "I-I-"

"It-doesn't-" David shakes his head. "Look, just-just-come in, and just-um-"

Miliband hesitates.

David swallows, feeling regret close into a slow fist in his chest. "Unless-you-ah-don't-want-"

"No-no, it'th, yeah, I'll-" Miliband takes a deep breath, his own hands curling closed at his sides, fingers flickering back and forth slightly. "I-um-"

He nods at David, awkwardly, and David just gestures silently ahead of him, gestures him in, before David does something stupid like letting his arms move from his sides. Before following him, his own eyes meet Kate's down the corridor as she raises her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and David shakes his head-he'll find something to tell her later.

He closes the door behind him with a sigh, turns around, and lets himself lean back against it. "Look-Miliband-"

That's all he gets out before suddenly his back's pushed hard into the wood and Miliband's hands are pressing hard into his cheeks, his fingernail a sharp slash just beneath David's temple, and Miliband's kissing him.

* * *

Ed really didn't know he was going to kiss him.

_Really_ didn't know he was going to kiss him.

But when Cameron had opened the door-

Just opened it and looked at him and said his name like they hadn't-didn't spend practically the whole of the previous _evening_ , for God's sake-

Ed had stood there, wrong-footed and grasping for words, and trying not to notice Cameron's hair, all smooth and freshly washed and combed into place, and feel his fingers curling into that warm softness again, breathe in his shampoo-

Which had meant, as he walked past Cameron into the office and got a confused impression of that warm sweet scent of soap and aftershave and something else, something-something undeniably _Cameronish_ , even though Ed tells himself that doesn't make even a grain of sense, for God's sake-he'd suddenly been seized with the memory of his face pressed into the pillow last night, his hand fumbling under his boxers, shocked little sounds cracking out of his own throat, trembling.

And then Cameron had been closing the door behind him, with a little shake of his head, every strand of that hair neatly in place, and now, with a little tug at that blue tie, with his eyes widening just a little more than usual for that smooth, polished-

"Look-Miliband-"

And Ed kisses him, hands grabbing his shoulders, then into the slight roundness of his cheeks, and his mouth pressing into Cameron's, hot and open, to feel Cameron's words shatter between them, just for a _second-_

* * *

Miliband's mouth is all need and hot and open and urgent. David gasps, head pushed back into the door, one hand bracing himself on Miliband's back, Miliband's hands on his face, his mouth open and frantic, tongue exploring David's mouth with no finesse whatsoever. David groans at the sheer _need_ of it, the way Miliband's pressed up against him, and oh fuck, he can _feel_ Miliband, hard and hot and needing, and oh _Christ-_

"Miliband-" The word's muffled, half in Miliband's mouth, so it comes out as "Ml-nd." David manages to get his breath between frantic kisses and half-gasps out _"Miliband!"_

This time, Miliband stops and leans back, chest rising and falling sharply. His cheeks are flushed, his dark eyes bright as he stares at David. David stares back.

"What-" is all he manages, vaguely. He can feel himself blushing. Miliband's eyes rove over his face, restless.

Then, abruptly, he looks away. "Well, that'th why you athked me to come in, isn't it?" he snaps, the words snatched out of his mouth before he turns away bitterly, wrapping his arms around himself as though suddenly in need of warmth, leaving David to stare at him, bemused.

* * *

Ed can feel heat creeping up his cheeks as he keeps his gaze firmly away from Cameron, the room full of both of their gasps for air. "I-I jutht-"

He almost pulls himself round to the door, eyes prickling, to his horror. "Forget it. I'll jutht-"

"Hey." Cameron's hand lands on his arm. "You know, you can't keep doing that."

Oh God.

Ed wants to sink through the floor. Oh God. Oh God. Oh _God-_

"Run out the door every time you're panicking." A slow grin curls the edge of Cameron's mouth. "Might start to think you're secretly agreeing with me about those TV debates."

Ed stares at him, feels incredulous laughter bubble up in his throat. _"You-"_

He shakes his head, drops his gaze, looking away, even as his shoulders shake. "You-complete-you-"

Cameron's hand is still there, a warm weight on his arm, and when he speaks, his voice is very soft. "Made you smile, though."

Ed feels the same stupid, confused smile rise to his mouth again, creeping out as Cameron's hand tightens a little on his arm. When Cameron's eyes flicker to Ed's mouth again, Ed's breath catches in his chest.

Abruptly, he pulls his gaze away, forces himself to be more gentle as he tugs his hand loose. "No. No-I-we-I came here to-wanted to talk about thith properly."

For a moment, he thinks Cameron's gaze flickers, but then Cameron's stepping back as if nothing's happened, combing his hair with his fingers. "Right. Um. Yes, of course-why don't we-"

Cameron gestures, almost awkwardly, to the sofa.

(Ed tries to push back the swooping drop in his chest at the sight of that awkward little gesture.)

He perches at one end of the sofa, Cameron at the other. He glances at Cameron, then away.

"Well-"

"Um." Cameron wraps his hands together for a moment. "I don't mean to wind you up here, Miliband, but it really was you who kissed me this time."

Ed throws up both hands and Cameron's hand moves first, but Ed rolls his eyes. "I wathn't _leaving."_

When he glances over, Cameron's looking away, but he's grinning. "No, no, I know, I just-"

He shakes his head slightly. "What made you do it? Today?"

"Do what?" Ed says it too quickly. Nervously.

Cameron's voice is soft, as though Ed's a horse that might bolt any second. "Kiss me."

* * *

For a second, David thinks Ed's going to run again.

His hands clench on the arm of the sofa. He bites his lip and his shoulders stiffen, as though he's physically anchoring himself to the thing.

But he doesn't move.

There's a silence. David looks away, then back, then away.

"I don't know." Ed's voice is almost a whisper, and his fingers tighten.

David looks away. Feels his mouth open and then close again.

"OK." David says it slowly. "OK. But-maybe-what you said. Yesterday."

Miliband's whole profile stills.

"About-it being angry." David doesn't look at him. "A way to just. Get it out."

Miliband makes a tiny almost-sound in the depths of his throat at the word _out,_ but he nods.

"So." David should know how to say this. How to shape his voice around it.

"Said maybe it's just-how we deal with it."

_It_ trembles in the air between them.

Ed takes in a long breath, as though he's about to say something.

"And that maybe....it wasn't bad."

Miliband stills again. There's another long silence.

Then, "Th-so-what?" Miliband looks up suddenly. "What-we-you're-you're th-saying-we-we th-we th-should-we-what-" He almost laughs, the sound a little wild. "M _-meet up_ and-and-"

He makes an odd, frantic gesture between them, and David looks away because he can't stand it, and he hears the words come cracking out of his mouth, needling, sharp, almost cruel. "Did you tell Justine?"

* * *

Ed almost leaps up off the couch at that, because, for God's sake, even the fact that Cameron can just _ask_ that-

"No" he says, almost spitting the word out, "no, of courthe I didn't _tell Jutht-"_

Laughter cracks out of his mouth at even the _thought_ of it.

"How would I tell her?" and he's suddenly hissing it at Cameron, leaning into him, willing him to look startled or frazzled or even just bloody- _something-_ "What, exactly, would I even th-say? That I-that-we-"

Of course Cameron doesn't have that problem.

Because of course, everything in life goes fucking perfectly for fucking _Cameron._

_It's just political._

"Not all of uth are like _you_ , you know" he spits out, eventually, and then turns away, huddling into his own chest. "Not all of uth-"

There's a silence.

Then, slowly, Cameron's hand touches his shoulder. Ed jerks away.

"I don't need you to feel _thorry_ for me!" He barks it out, the words cracking childishly in the air between them. "God, I'm not feeling-"

There's another moment of silence before Cameron says, with an odd grin, as though it's fighting to escape from his face, "Maybe I wasn't thinking of you."

There's a pause as the words sink in before Ed turns round to look at him, eyes narrowing. "I-"

"Anyway" Cameron says suddenly, a little more brisk now, eyes sliding away from Ed's as though the moment never happened. "Can you come?"

Ed almost jumps out of his skin. _"What?!"_

Cameron looks as though he is trying very, very hard not to laugh.

"Can you come? On Saturday?"

Ed glowers at him, silently daring- _daring_ him to-

"I texted Juthtine thith morning" he says shortly, then, hearing the words, backtracks a little. "I mean-I left before she did. She'll get back to me at lunchtime, probably-"

Cameron nods, but there's a second, barely a blink, where he chews at his lip.

"And you-um-" Cameron almost, but not quite, plays with his fingers for a second before he adds "And you can stay the night."

Ed looks up very, very slowly. Cameron determinedly meets his gaze.

"W-what?"

* * *

"I-ah-" David's determined to get through this without looking away. "People are staying over. After the party. Because it's the kids' half-term. You know, and-it's a Saturday-"

David is not going to let himself start babbling.

"So-so-um-um-you're-you're more than welcome to-to stay. It-it-you-if you-if you want. There's plenty-plenty of room and plenty of-people-will be-"

David can hear himself doing something that is veering very, very dangerously close to babbling.

Miliband stares at him for a long moment, which allows David enough time to ram his mouth shut and silently scream at himself, before Miliband, abruptly, looks away.

"Why ith thith tho _easy_ for you?" His voice, which is taut, cracks ominously on _you._ David looks up, sees Miliband swallow hard.

David blinks, then again. _"Easy?"_ The word shatters in the air between them. _"Easy?"_ And suddenly, his hands are on Miliband's shoulders and he's pulling him round to face him. "Exactly which part of this do you think is _easy_ for me, _Miliband?"_

"What part of it _isn't?"_ Miliband almost shouts the words back at him, whipping round so they're suddenly less than an inch apart. "You're-you're- _you're_ the one who can talk about it, _you're_ the one who says what we should _call_ it, even your bloody _wife_ is OK with it-"

His hands twitch as if they're about to clutch into David's shirt, but then he turns away, hands curling into fists in his lap instead, breathing hard.

David stares at him. "You actually think Sam finds this _easy?"_ He doesn't realise until Miliband looks up, startled, that his own voice has almost reached a shout, ricocheting in their ears. "Jesus, Miliband, can you not get out of your own blasted head for _five bloody minutes_ and stop thinking you're the _only one_ in the _whole world_ who is finding anything even _vaguely_ difficult, for Christ's sake?"

He's breathing hard, his cheeks burning. Miliband stares at him, eyes wide. The look squeezes tight in David's chest, makes him gulp.

"You don't have any idea what it's like for Sam" he says hotly, yanking himself round so that he can't be looking at Miliband. "You don't have a bloody clue so stop just trying to run away from all the issues for five bloody minutes."

Miliband is still at the other end of the couch. David leans forward, lets his head rest in his hands, tugs his tie loose and throws it on the sofa between them. Ed leans forward, forehead pressing into his own fists.

Sam had been curled up under the duvet when David had slowly walked back into the bedroom last night. She'd peered up at him from half under the pillow, her hair falling around her face, wiped free of make-up, so she looked even younger.

She'd just looked at him, and then David had climbed onto the bed next to her, whispering "Are you all right?"

Sam had looked at him, deep blue eyes finding David's over the duvet. "Are _you?"_

David had opened his mouth and realised he had no idea how to answer. Instead, he'd just wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close into the side of his body. He'd yanked his shirt off, then his trousers, wriggling under the duvet, wrapping himself tighter around her.

"Did you kiss him?" Sam had said, simply, looking up at him.

David had struggled, but he'd nodded.

Sam had just looked at him, and then she'd said "Are you going to do it again?"

David had opened his mouth, then closed it.

Then, "I don't know."

Then, "No. Yes. Yes. I-I-"

He'd stopped and buried his face in her hair. "I don't know" he'd blurted out, dragging one hand through his own hair. "God, I'm so confused-"

He'd sighed and turned over to face her, stroking her hair off her face. "And I don't think _he_ knows-he started it-again-and then he just-"

Briefly, he'd managed to elaborate a little on what exactly had happened in Miliband's house, up to and including the kiss at the door.

"And now I don't _know_ " he'd finished, exasperated. "I asked him to come and meet me tomorrow to talk, but I've got no idea if he'll bloody show up." He'd let his head fall back into the pillow.

"I don't know what to _do"_ he'd said again, blinking, bemused at the simple truth of this. "I-I really don't know what to do. At all."

Sam had opened her mouth. "I just-" She'd shaken her head, pulled her knees up under the duvet. "What do you _want_ to do?" and she'd looked so small and vulnerable that David's arms had wrapped around her again.

"Whatever doesn't hurt you" he'd said, because it had been easy to say that in the moment, because it had been easier to try not to think about Miliband and his mouth and hands and big, dark eyes, all grabbing at David, all-

Sam had shaken her head then. "But you can't, can you" she'd said quietly.

David had stared at her. "What-what d'you mean?" He'd propped himself up on his elbow. "If-if you don't want me to, I'll-I'll stop, I'll stop, I'll-"

He doesn't know what he'd have promised, just that he'd have promised anything to get her not to look like that, when she'd looked up at him with her eyes wet and confused.

"But you'll still want to, won't you?" she'd said and David had cringed away from the truth of this even as he hugged Sam harder, as though he could burrow her between his ribs and let her sink her fingers into his heart, because he didn't know what the hell to do with it, and maybe someone else should have a go.

"I-"

David had hugged her tightly, held her against his chest, known she could feel his heartbeat against her ear.

"What can I do?" he'd asked helplessly, half a dozen times. "What can I do?"

He's not sure how long they'd lain there like that, before Sam had whispered his name. "Dave." She'd said it again, tracing his chest, pressing her cheek against his heartbeat. "Dave. Dave."

David had looked at her, pressed a kiss fiercely into her hair.

"It's just hard" she'd said and then she'd been pressing her face into his chest again. "It's just hard and that wouldn't make it less hard, all right?"

David had looked at her helplessly, and then wrapped his arms around her harder as she'd cried into his chest.

They'd lain there, David's hand rubbing her back, combing her hair with his fingers.

Now, he stares at Miliband, even as guilt pulls his stomach lower. "Stop acting like the only bloody person this is difficult for is _you_ , all right?"

* * *

Ed really wants to get up and storm out.

Or scream.

Or do _something._

But-

_Stop acting like the only bloody person this is difficult for is you..._

So instead, Ed sits there, fuming silently, not knowing whether he's fuming at himself or Cameron or both of them.

"Well, why am I _here_ , then?" he blurts out, his voice almost cracking again. "What are-what do you think we're-is thith some kind of-some _regular-"_

His voice almost trails off into a laugh at the impossibility of it.

"Th-some regular-"

Cameron's watching him quietly, even as Ed hears himself sputter his way into silence. Then Cameron says, very softly, "It can be, if you want."

Ed opens his mouth and closes it.

He-

This can't be real. This cannot be real. Ed's gaze swings around the room wildly. There has to be something recording this. Some prank. Some social experiment.

There _has_ to be.

This can't be real.

It can't be.

"I-" He glances at Cameron, then down at his knees. He stares at them as hard as he can, but he can still feel every inch of Cameron moving closer, his heart thudding so loudly in his chest Ed can barely hear himself breathe.

"It's only political." Cameron's voice is a hot breath against Ed's neck, sending a warm shudder down Ed's spine, through his body, and he can't look at Cameron, he-

He turns his head and his nose almost bumps into Cameron's. Ed's breath catches.

They stare at each other. Cameron's so close that Ed can trace the faintest hints of bags under his eyes, can almost taste his toothpaste.

He opens his mouth to say something, an "I-", a "You-", a "We-"-

But instead, he leans forward and, in a little breath, lets his mouth bump into Cameron's.

Cameron's mouth just opens into his own in a soft sigh, and then Ed's hands are coming up to Cameron's cheeks and he's pressing closer, Cameron's mouth warm and open and everything in the room around them, even the faintest hum of the computer, is ringing in the sudden silence.

* * *

David tries, desperately, to keep hold of his thoughts, even as Ed's mouth softens against his, even as his hands cradle David's head, kissing him longer, deeper, pulling at David's suit suddenly, fingers clutching. Then Miliband tilts his head up, taking control of the kiss, deepening it, and David loses track of all thought, one arm winding around Miliband's back, holding him tight, Miliband's suit creasing under his fingers.

This should feel weirder, David thinks madly as Miliband's tongue strokes into his mouth slowly, almost confidently, if it weren't for the fact he's holding onto David so tightly. It should feel weirder. Kissing a man should definitely, definitely feel weirder.

If David had ever thought about it-ever imagined what kissing a man would be like-then he'd have thought there'd be something different about it. Something obviously masculine, something-

But apart from the faintest hint of stubble occasionally when one of them tilts their head a little too quickly, there's-there's not much. Maybe the sheer force of the kissing, the occasional clash of teeth that- _ow-_

David leans back in time to see Miliband wince. "Ow-th-sorry-" He gives David a sheepish look, as David raises his hand to his mouth, becoming aware of the slight throb in his bottom lip, the way Miliband's hand has risen, almost unconsciously, to the same spot on his own mouth.

David shakes his head. "It's-um-it's fine-it's-"

He can't take his eyes off Miliband's finger, which is slowly moving to his own lip, and David's speech falters into silence as Miliband's finger touches his own mouth very softly, a flutter of movement. David feels his breath catch, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he can feel it all over his body.

"I-" He manages one word, after a second, his lip trembling under the tip of Miliband's finger.

"How long have you got?" he whispers, not daring to let his voice rise any further, bring the names of anyone else into the room.

"I-" Miliband shakes his head, as though trying to clear it.

_Don't do that,_ David wills him suddenly, desperately. _Don't think twice about this. Don't make me think twice about this._

"I-" Miliband stares at him, their foreheads closer now, almost touching. "Got-about-half-half-an hour-they think we're-meeting-"

David nods. He can-he can do that.

"Half an hour" he says weakly, his hands already moving again, one pressing into Miliband's cheek. "I can-I can possibly-accommodate that-"

Miliband's mouth meets his own again and the rest of the sentence dissolves into the hot wet sound of their mouths moving together, into another kiss that leaves them both gasping.

* * *

Something about the way Cameron _says_ it, the quiver in his voice, makes Ed want-need him-

He kisses again, another quick, soft touch of their mouths together. Then again. Then deeper, longer.

Ed's never done this before. Before, kissing's always been something to get over with as quickly as possible. If it's gone on for longer, he's been trying to get his mind onto something else.

He's never done it like this. Experimenting, kissing Cameron quickly, then slowly. Longer, then short, brief little whispers of kisses that make Cameron shiver, and when Ed opens his eyes, he sees Cameron's eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth parted in a little _O._ The sight, above Cameron's white shirt and blue tie, under that soft _hair,_ which Cameron always combs over that spot of bare skin at the back that gets a little bigger every year, all of it together-

It makes something stretch fondly in Ed's chest and he tugs Cameron closer without having to think about it and kisses him, longer now, warm and deep and soft, and then Cameron signs softly into his mouth and his hand curls tightly into Ed's hair, which makes Ed jump. When he opens his eyes again, Cameron's staring at him, blue eyes wide, gasping for breath.

Ed moves slowly, awkwardly, pressing his mouth to Cameron's jaw.

"C-Can I-" He whispers it, presses another kiss into Cameron's jaw, and he feels Cameron nod breathlessly, as he kisses again, further up Cameron's jaw, making him shudder hard under Ed's mouth.

* * *

David's head is full of Miliband's hair and eyes and cheekbones, which he can feel when he pulls Miliband closer, harder.

Miliband's kissing his neck, making David jump with each tickling press of his lips, making him gasp, one hand anchoring him in the centre of Miliband's back, so he can feel Miliband suddenly, feel his body, angular and gawky and jutting, with the slight softness of his stomach, and for barely a blink, the thought flares lightning-bright, _How the hell did I see him when I was eighteen and not know it?_ , followed by the rolling thunder of _How the hell have I known him this long and not known I wanted to-_ and that thought sends his hands moving faster, harder, until suddenly he's wriggling slightly under Miliband's mouth, his hands skating up and down his back and sides, one finding his hip, because suddenly, the only words he can grasp are _what if, what if this is the last time we get to do this, God, don't let it be the last time we get to do this, and what if it is and I haven't, I haven't-_

One hand strokes the small of Miliband's back gently, fingers lingering. He feels Miliband still against him, mouth pressing into his neck, and David's heart's beating so hard it hurts, and it's a moment before it hits him that _fuck, I made him do that, Jesus, Jesus, I-_

Ed's hips give an impatient buck as though they've developed a life of their own, and David's fingers caress again, clumsily, in the same circle at his tail bone. This time, Miliband doesn't quite growl, but his body jerks sharply and he gasps, harsh and shocked, into David's neck, his fingers suddenly curling into David's shirt, digging for tighter purchase, and his teeth scrape under David's ear and then David sees stars and flashing and _fuckthereyes-_

His own fingers press a little and Miliband gasps, the sound breaking into David's skin.

"Wait-your turn-" he pants out, that little nasal whine breaking through his voice, and God, it's so _Milibandy_ that David's stomach swoops in delight and he just _sighs_ and then laughs softly, because-

"Oh, Miliband" he sighs, and then he hears, "What?", a little short and aggrieved, and Miliband's mouth leaves his neck and David gets a glimpse of those big, dark eyes, large and accusing, and his lips flushed and David shakes his head and just says "You're so-" and then he takes Miliband's face between his hands and pulls him in and kisses him, long and hard and good, Miliband's fingers threading through his hair, and then Miliband's mouth opens and he kisses him deeper, longer, harder, arms wrapping around David's shoulders.

Miliband's chin presses into his own, one hand cupping David's jaw. David kisses hard, fiercely, and Miliband vines around him, one hand in his hair, one on his back-

Something buzzes against David's chest. David knows what it is immediately, even through the hot haze of Miliband's kisses, but he deepens the kiss, praying Miliband won't hear it.

He has-of course he fucking has, David thinks with a moaning gasp, as their mouths part slickly, Miliband's eyes wild, dark, sending a jolt straight to-

"It'th jutht a text, it-" Miliband fumbles with his phone while David tries very, very fixedly not to stare down at his own crotch. "I'll-I'll jutht-"

Don't be Justine, David thinks. Please. Please don't be his fucking wife.

"It'th Juthtine-"

David manages, by a supreme effort, not to roll his eyes.

"She-er-" Miliband's eyes dart. "She says-we can go, but-she can't-stay over-I think, I-" Ed glances up at him. "The boys and I can, I think-but-you know-" His cheeks are slowly crimsoning. "Given-we're-"

"You can stay" David manages, the words more faltering than he'd like. "It's fine."

Miliband blinks. "But-you know-" He glances around, lowers his voice, even though they're alone in the room. "We're-um-and with Juthtine-"

Fuck Justine, David thinks, meanly.

"It's up to you" he forces himself to say instead, leaning back, crisping his tone a little, putting some distance between them. "You can leave, if you want."

The words crackle with their own meaning in the air. David reaches for his tie, pulls it back around his neck, fastening it loosely, and both of them involuntarily glance at the door.

Miliband glances sharply back at him, as though David's called his name. "I-"

He glances at the phone, then back at David, eyes skittering back and forth and then his face changes. David can't put his finger on how-maybe a softening of Miliband's eyes, a parting of his lips-but then Miliband leans forward, tongue tracing the corner of his mouth nervously and, very slowly, his hand fastens around David's tie, and David feels the gasp catch in his own body, suddenly so hard he almost can't breathe.

Miliband tugs gently, pulling David slowly back in, closing the distance between them until their foreheads are resting against each other. Until they're breathing the same air. Almost each other.

* * *

Ed's not sure what he's doing. He just knows he wants to be closer. He wants to breathe Cameron in, feels his thumb moving restlessly up Cameron's tie towards his neck.

"I-I can thstay-" he says, voice quivering. His eyes roam over Cameron's face, the careful set of his jawline, the composure he's trying to hoist back into place.

"I can th-stay" he says, and he doesn't know if he's talking about then or now.

Cameron blinks, a look in his eyes that Ed can't quite catch.

"All right" he says, after a moment, a little too carefully, a little too clearly and Ed stares back at him. His eyes dart to Cameron's mouth for a moment, watches as Cameron bites his lip for barely a second, probably without noticing. Ed does, though. Ed has to notice everything.

"Right" he says, and then, gripped by a slow, drowning sensation in his chest, he leans in slowly, very slowly, wanting to savour the moment when Cameron's blue eyes darken slowly, pupils dilating, watching his eyes flicker closed in the second before Ed presses his mouth into Cameron's in a warm, soft, kiss. It's longer than he means, soft and almost gentle. When their tongues touch, Ed feels something dissolve slowly in his chest.

They kiss slowly, deeply, quieter now, Ed's hands pressing themselves into Cameron's cheeks, kissing him harder, deeper. Cameron's mouth opens under his own, and Ed almost winds himself around him, their chests pressed tightly together. Ed can feel Cameron's heart beating in his own chest.

They kiss, Cameron's fingers stroking through Ed's hair. The touch of David's fingers on Ed's scalp leaves goosebumps shivering up his neck. Cameron sighs, softly, into Ed's jaw, and then his mouth's on Ed's neck, warm and soft.

It's Cameron. It's _David fucking Cameron._

Ed blinks as this spins through his head for a few moments, almost making him laugh out loud. It's _David bloody Cameron, for fuck's sake._

Cameron's kissing his neck much more softly now, his arms wrapping around Ed, his mouth pressing in softer, gentler touches. Ed quivers, and then Cameron murmurs into his skin "Shhh..." as his fingers comb through Ed's hair softly.

* * *

David feels Miliband hesitate against him at the same moment as he becomes aware that he's dragging his fingers slowly through Miliband's hair.

"Ah-"

He should stop, he thinks. It would be better. It-he-

He doesn't have to think with Sam. Her body can be like an extension of his own, the way that they can curl into each other at the same time, the way their hands can reach for each other without even having to glance, a double act that you can only get right-that you can only create-through living a lifetime together.

But he doesn't have to think now, either, he realises with a jolt. His hands are finding Miliband's hair of their own accord. His mouth knows what it wants to do with Miliband's. His hands know where they want to be.

Miliband's staring at him, eyes huge. David's hand freezes, still tangled in his hair.

"I-um-" He clears his throat. "I-I was just-I thought you might like-"

Miliband's head does an odd little jerk, which would be enough to convince David that allowing his hands to stray anywhere near Miliband's hair is, officially, the worst idea in the world, if it weren't for Miliband then saying, so softly it almost gets lost, "It-it'th jutht-I haven't-"

David stares at him, hand still held there.

"Do-" His voice comes out as a croak. "Do you want to-"

His arms move awkwardly around Miliband's shoulders and for a moment, Miliband's head presses against his own shoulder, as David pulls him into a clumsy, trembling half-hug, and warmth suffuses David's chest, a swooping flood that leaves his cheeks warm and his hands uncharacteristically fumbling.

When his eyes find Miliband's again, Miliband is staring at him. His lips are slightly parted, his eye huge and softer, fuller, somehow.

"I-" His voice is a whisper, then-"-I've got to go."

Disappointment clenches tightly in David's chest.

"Of course" he says, too curtly. He lets go of Miliband immediately, wriggles away from him as though he could get burnt. "Yes. Of course."

Miliband, staring at him, opens his mouth. "Well-" He gets up and heads to the door but, instead of opening it, he peers in the mirror to the side, brings his fingers up through his hair. David watches him for a couple of moments before realising, as Miliband adjusts his collar, that Miliband's tidying himself up, and that, in that case, David realises with heat creeping up his neck, he must need to do the same.

He gets up quickly and marches over to the same mirror, where he busies himself with fixing his own tie. He catches a glimpse of his face-cheeks flushed, hair in complete disarray-and begins smoothing out his shirt as quickly as possible, looking anywhere but at Miliband.

"I can come, tomorrow" Miliband announces, suddenly, abruptly, and David glances over to see Miliband adjusting his tie with determined focus. "I can."

David searches for words. "OK" he manages, feebly.

Miliband glances up at him and opens his mouth, but by the time David meets his gaze again, he's already looked away, tugging at his tie one last time, checking himself nervously in the mirror.

"I'll thee you" he manages, and then, with a quick jerk of a nod, he's out the door, leaving David to stare after him, one hand still on his own tie, until the door closes with a loud, definite thud behind him, slicing the sentence in half.

* * *

"I _cannot-"_ George hisses, glancing over his shoulder at the ensuite door, which he keeps eyeing nervously. "Speak to _both_ of you at _once."_

"You hardly need to _whisper."_

"I'm in the fucking _bathroom."_

"Oh _Jesus_ , Osborne!"

George rolls his eyes at the clatter of the phone being dropped on the other end. He's calculating how long he'll give Balls to recover before turning his attention back to bed-Chequers gets draughty in winter-when he hears, in a slow drawl, "I really could have lived without that information, George."

You could live without this information, too, George thinks childishly.

"Not like _that"_ he hisses, leaning back against the wall, thankful he remembered to pull on his dressing gown.

"Oh, wonderful. For a moment there, I thought Ms Rowe had a new book out."

George feels his cheeks colour very slightly, but when he speaks, his voice is controlled. "Sadly not. Pity though. I'm sure those photos of your husband saluting the Fuhrer would go down very well."

There's a moment's silence, then "Look-"

"Hitler or Himmell, I can never remember who he was trying to be-not a vote-winner, though, surely-"

"I was under the impression-" George bites back a grin at the careful tightness of the woman's words. "That you were hoping to discuss your leader's behaviour."

George's eyebrows shoot up so rapidly, he's rather surprised they don't leave his face.

"Oh, yeah, because your old flatmate just comes out of this _reeking_ of rose-scented opinion polls, doesn't he?"

There's another silence, then "We've got something in common, then."

George rolls his eyes. "Aside from your husband" he murmurs, a quick barbed reminder to Yvette.

There's another silence. Then, "So what do _you_ propose we do?"

George shakes his head slowly. "Don't try to catch me out" he warns her quietly.

There's a sigh.

"We don't _know_ anything" George tells her, bluntly. "All we've got is a hunch. And I'm not going to go and rip Dave's life apart based on a bloody _hunch."_

"You lot love to be dramatic. For fuck's sake, _rip his life apart-"_

"Yeah, well, he's the one who wants to stay married here" George shoots back, and has the grim satisfaction of hearing the silence that follows.

"Look-" Yvette's voice is slow, careful. "Ed and Justine-"

_"Weaned on poison, considers harm a comfort"_ George murmurs. Then, a second later, "However it goes, anyway. Whether they count as old money-"

"Why are you in the bathroom?" Yvette asks, more quietly, a moment later.

"Frances'll be getting into bed in a minute. She doesn't need to be worried."

"You mean you think she'll tell Samantha."

"Why are you worried about my wife?"

"Because I respect her more than I respect you."

George lets the words hang there for a moment. "Charming" he says, idly. "And there was your husband, inviting me round for a barbecue-"

"Oh, for God's sake, George." George lets himself smirk slightly in the mirror at the nettled tone. "This isn't about you tugging a few pigtails, for Christ's sake."

"Indeed." George leans back against the wall. "And no, I haven't told her. Because she'd feel she should tell Sam."

"And Cameron hasn't."

"I don't know" George says slowly. "He might. I'm just not going to wade in until I'm sure he has."

"He'd _tell_ her?" Yvette's voice cracks with scepticism.

George has to hesitate before he answers. "I don't know" he says, slowly. "But he'd be more likely to tell her than not to."

There's another silence.

"You know them better than me."

George hesitates, thinking.

"They know each other" he says, slowly, tugging at a part of the panelling where the wood's coming away from the wall. "More than anything."

There's a pause, then, "But still-"

"You can't know" George interrupts quietly, voice very level. "What they're like. OK?"

There's a long silence. Then "All right", so quietly that George almost doesn't hear it at all.

Then, almost immediately, "What do you _expect_ to do, then? Just-just sit-sit back and-and wait for-fo-"

"Pretty sure we don't have much _choice."_ George leans back against the door. "I'll keep an eye on them."

"And how long's that going to-Ed, I swear to God if you're _eating_ that cake-"

"All right, I'll just give Dave a time limit, shall I-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Osborne-Ed, _don't_ tell me _no_ , I can hear the bloody _fridge_ opening!"

"Look" George says, hearing the vague assurances of innocence from the clearly full mouth of his chief opponent. "It's not ideal. What the hell are we meant to do?"

There's a long silence. Then "And Adora was living in the South surrounded by Confederate tattoos, Osborne. Need a better epigraph."

"Frances isn't the only one who reads Gillian Flynn."

Yvette doesn't say anything, but George can picture, on the other end, a very small smile.

"Right." There's a squawk as the phone is jolted and a distinctly muffled voice fills George's ear. "What have I missed"

"Ed Balls, I'll wrench your bloody bollocks off in a minute, I told you not to even _breathe_ near that fucking cake."

A noise remarkably like hasty chewing fills the phone line, followed by a very muffled, "I wasn't."

There's another squawk.

* * *

"Did you ring him yet?"

A low, careful laugh makes Alastair roll his eyes, clench his aw.

"I'd forgotten you don't say hello, Ali." Tony's voice is light and smooth as though Alastair's just rung to tease him about the football.

"I'd forgotten you're worse than Cameron at avoiding the fucking question."

Tony chuckles, too light this time. "Do you think he's got me to thank for that?"

"You haven't fucking rung him, have you?"

There's a long moment of silence, before Tony sighs. "Ali-"

"Yes or no, for fuck's sake?"

There's merely silence, which is what Alastair expects.

"For fuck's _sake-"_

"Ali." Tony's voice is still light, still level, but it would take someone like Alastair to detect the warning beneath the words. "I'm not exactly in the habit of-" The laugh, a little too tense, that Alastair heard so many times during the days of Iraq and Hutton and setting that departure date, long nights in Downing Street offices, both of them crashing out on camp beds rather than dragging themselves up to the flat. "Picking up the phone to Gordon."

Alastair snorts. "Yeah, well, that's not how it used to be, is it?"

Tony's reply, when it comes, shines with a flash of steel. "Yeah, well, maybe that's why-"

He stops, with an effort Alastair can almost hear.

"Wait-" and Alastair hears movement on the other end. "Cherie" Tony explains a moment later, with a sigh that sounds as though he's just sat down. Alastair can see him, in his mind's eye, through years of these conversations sinking down on the end of the bed, leaning his face into his hands, looking up, his face suddenly older, more lined than Alastair remembers it. _The only way he's going to stop is if I give him a date._

_And that kisses fucking goodbye to stopping him, doesn't it?_

"She still doesn't want to hear about....him" Tony explains, redundantly.

"And neither do I" Fiona mutters from next to him, a curled lump under the duvet.

Alastair tips his head back against the pillow. "Yeah, well, things have got a bit beyond what Cherie bloody wants here, haven't they?"

There's a moment of silence, then "What do you mean?" Tony's voice is suddenly guarded, careful, and Alastair sits up slowly.

"I mean" he says, careful not to soften his tone too much-Tony knows Alastair as well as Alastair knows him, despite the air of casual self-obsession he likes to pull on for a costume. "If you don't want Miliband carrying on this fucking- _game_ with Cameron."

There's a moment, barely a breath, before Tony says "Of course."

Alastair glances at his own expression in the mirror. Wonders what Tony would say if he was in front of him right now.

"Good" he says, slowly, into the phone. "That's settled, then."

There's a sudden, violent movement from next to him, and the phone is wrestled from Alastair's grasp. "You know what isn't settled?" Fiona demands into the phone, her long blonde hair wild around her head. "Me. So shut the fuck _up."_

With that, she chucks the phone back at Alastair, turns over, and, dragging the duvet up over her shoulders, rams the pillow firmly over her head.

Alastair retrieves the phone slowly, shaking it a few times to check it isn't damaged. "I believe that was Fiona's way of suggesting I go."

It won't be until later-long after Tony's chuckle and the click of the phone call ending and Fiona's frankly unfair hysterical laughter when Alastair advises her that she could always do to learn a little more self-control and the subsequent pillow that smothers his face-that, lying down, staring into the dark, Alastair realises that Tony never actually answered the question.

* * *

"I rather think I may begin to demand your company on Friday nights, dear boy."

George feels his cheeks warm at the silky voice in his ear.

"Chequers demanded my attention" he replies instead, his own voice curving in amusement. "It's Elwen's birthday."

"Ah, of course." Peter's voice trails off for a moment, before, teasingly, "And there I thought I was worthy of a special phone call when you noticed the date."

George rolls his eyes "You'll be sounding like Frances next" he says, a teasing lilt creeping into his own voice. "I take it you received the appropriate gifts?"

There's a gasp at the other end of the phone. "Dear, dear, Georgie. What an insinuation to make."

George rolls his eyes.

"As it happens, I have had a perfectly, innocently delightful Valentine's Day morning, Mr Osborne" Peter announces, in a tone dripping simultaneously with wounded innocence and glee. "I must say, I'm shocked at the crude implication I could have enjoyed anything other."

George grins. "I'm not."

"I trust your Valentine's Day has been similarly enjoyable, dear boy?"

"You may surmise." George allows himself to smirk in the mirror. "I-I have to confess, I didn't call entirely to wish you the joys of the season, Peter."

"Oh, what a shame. I was rather raising-raising my hopes-"

"Well, I must say-apologise for the hopes, but I-I'm going to guess you heard."

"Heard?"

"About-ah-the little set-to on Wednesday?"

"Ahhhhh."There's a long, soft, breath on the other end of the phone. George can almost picture Peter closing his eyes in a long sigh. Peter probably practices it in the mirror. "Yes. It would have been rather-rather difficult not to hear of it, if I'm honest. Very lucky with the journalists, I must say."

"Yeah, well-maybe money changed hands or something."

"Dear, dear, Mr Osborne. I do hope that wasn't an insinuation about the workings of your current government."

"Technically, it's not my government, Peter."

"Ah, but how long will _that_ be for?" Peter's tone is as friendly, as teasing as ever, but George appreciates the slight tickle of steel in the words.

"I think" he says slowly, with a smile. "You've been spending a little too much time with Gordon Brown, Peter."

There's a silence, and then Peter's light chuckle fills George's ear. "Or maybe I've taught you well, dear boy."

George blinks, but Peter's already moved on, crooning slightly. "Ah, _Gordon._ I understand Tony hasn't quite brought himself to extend the olive branch yet."

"He hasn't? How do you-forgot, you're Peter Mandelson-"

"Ah, a dangerous mistake, dear boy. But, more from Alastair's repeated and verbose text messages."

"Ah."

"I'd read them, but they are frankly unrepeatable-particularly one-oh, dear-"

George allows him a couple of seconds of silent shaking of the head, before he says "So we're waiting on your old friend, then?"

Peter laughs. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. You could always keep an eye on Eddie when he arrives today."

It takes another second for the words to register and for George to blink.

"Hang on, _what?"_

* * *

Nancy wakes up when Bea screams.

_"What?"_ She sits bolt upright in bed and her elbow catches a soft object, which, from the answering shriek a second later, transpires to be Liberty's cheek. _"Ow!"_

Bea has leapt back against the pillow. "What the _hell_ is that?"

"My _eye-_

"Shut _up_ " Nancy orders them all, in a fierce whisper. "You'll get Mum and Dad in here."

She's already recognized the strange, eerie glow through the near-darkness of the bedroom and when she hears her brother's snort of laughter, Nancy aims a kick in that direction.

_"Ow!"_ There's an indignant squawk as Nancy's foot makes contact with what feels like a shoulder. "That was my _arm-"_

"Get _out_ , then." A lamp flickers on, courtesy of Liberty, and Nancy gets a glimpse of her brother's scowl, rubbing his shoulder, the sudden glow of the lightning bolts on his chest and legs fading.

"It's El's pyjamas" Nancy mutters, lying back down and tuning over. "They're glow-in-the-dark."

Elwen, still aiming an aggrieved look at Nancy, promptly disappears under a pillow, chucked by Beatrice.

"What was _that_ for?"

"You could have _killed_ me, you _idiot."_

Nancy kicks her under the duvet, without opening her eyes. _"Mum_ and _Dad."_

"You could have _killed me"_ Bea proclaims in a strangled whisper about one decibel below her usual speaking volume. She'd used a similar tone when Nancy had informed her last night, bedclothes pulled over their heads, that Martha was coming.

"I _hate_ her." Bea had flopped onto her back, with a glance at Liberty, already sound asleep, on Nancy's other side. "She'd better not say anything about Dad."

"Mum says she failed her exams. To stay on at her school" Nancy had told her, fiddling with her grey teddy bear. "She has to go to a normal one now, like ours'. Mum says we're not to bring it up."

"She always brings your dad up."

"Yeah, Mum says we're to take the higher road."

"I thought she didn't like schools where you had to pay."

"Yeah, except when she goes there."

"It's my birthday" Elwen informs her now, Perry's head appearing at the door with a giggle.

"Well done" Nancy informs him from under the duvet, putting out her hand to press it to Liberty's cheek. "Mum and Dad'll go mental if you get them up now."

"Well, that's why I came in _here."_ Elwen's arranging himself, cross-legged, on the end of the bed, even as Perry wanders into the bedroom behind him.

"Thanks for that" Liberty mutters, turning over.

"Where's Rex?" Nancy mutters into her pillow.

"Asleep. So's Flo." Elwen bounces a little, the lightning zigzags in his pyjamas still reflecting dimly in the glow of the lamplight. "We checked."

"Where's Will?" Bea mutters, grumpily, deigning to give Elwen a glare out of one cross eye from her pillow.

"Asleep" Perry informs her, with a shake of his dark hair as he gathers his legs underneath him, scrambling onto the four-poster bed, pushing the curtains aside. "Who else is coming today?"

"Auntie Allie isn't coming" Nancy mumbles. "They went on holiday last night. Uncle James is coming down."

"Oli and Xan are coming" Elwen says, cheerfully enough, having apparently recovered sufficiently from the kick. "And Uncle Chris."

"Uncle James is staying over" Nancy grudgingly volunteers. "And Mr Ed Miliband."

Beatrice makes a confused sound. "Why?"

Nancy shrugs. "Don't know. Dad invited him. And Uncle Andrew."

Liberty snorts from next to her. "Natasha'll be here, then."

Nancy half-snickers, half-groans, face still pressed into her pillow.

"We're doing these video projects at school" Liberty informs them, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her knees. "Where we put them to music or something, like, make up a song-and Tash has genuinely-" Liberty pronounces the word as though there's an "eye" in the middle. "Called hers' _"It's All About Me.""_

Nancy snorts. "Perfect."

"Oh, so _that's_ what she wouldn't shut up about when we were all at theirs' last week" Bea mutters into the pillow.

"Yeah, she was trying on outfits."

"Oh, _that's_ what she was wearing. I thought maybe someone had thrown them at her or something."

"I've got to be in it" Liberty informs them sullenly.

Bea, who'd rolled over, tucking the duvet around her shoulders, now shrieks in delight, bouncing upright to laugh. "Brilliant."

Nancy snorts again. "That'll be your birthday present from Tash" she tells Elwen, who cackles as Liberty kicks him under the duvet.

* * *

"Here, El, get in the middle-" Dad knocks the ball back to him gently. Elwen dives for it and sends it into the net.

"Ow-" He shakes his hand where the ball caught his thumb. _"Ow-"_

"All right-" Dad's already making his way round the net, where he takes Elwen's hand in his own, presses a kiss to his thumb. "All right, here we go, let me have a look-"

Elwen, still in his pyjamas, nestles into his father's chest, lets his arm fall around his shoulders, too young, though he doesn't yet realise it, to have developed the reaction of shying away from a hug, as some boys do. Instead, Elwen still leans into affection, arms around him being a natural way of life, one which he's young enough to take for granted.

"Want to try another?" Dad, wrapping his arms around him, presses another kiss to his head, then his cheek. "OK?"

Elwen nestles against him for a moment, while Dad rubs his cheek. Briefly, he closes his eyes and remembers being small, scrambling into his parents' bed, his father pulling him against his chest, hand rubbing his back slowly, pressing kisses to the top of his head. Abruptly, he remembers sitting on the stairs with Nancy and the others, their faces pressed to the bannisters, listening, Mum's voice cutting through the air.

"El?" Dad kisses his head again. "Want to try another?"

Elwen's young enough to be able to not dwell on things and so when he nods, and scrambles for the ball, with a ruffle to his hair, his mind's entirely on his next serve.

* * *

"Tell me this isn't true." George's hand fastens into David's sleeve.

"What?" David freezes, mind immediately grabbing Ed's hands, Ed's hands in his hair, his mouth hot and open on David's neck.

George stares at him, glances about at some of the staff, who are quietly setting up the buffet table along one side of the Hall, and presses his lips together. "Miliband's coming?" he manages, through barely-opened lips.

"Oh." David very nearly sighs with relief. "Oh. Yeah. Didn't I tell you?"

"No. No, you didn't."

"How did you-"

"Peter just told me." George crosses his arms slightly, though he can do nothing about the slight flush of colour that pinkens his cheeks.

David raises an eyebrow. "That still going on, then?"

George flushes deeper.

"Anyway, I thought you would have-"

"David."

"Yes?"

"What's going on?"

David hesitates. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on." George's voice is low, careful. "You've gone from just _being nicer to him_ to spending every bloody _weekend_ with him, for God's sake."

David keeps his voice carefully level. "We've spent time with each other before" he says, trying to sound indifferent, careless. "This is just-"

"Not like this." George folds his arms tightly. "Not while an election's on."

"Technically, the election isn't _on_ yet-"

"David."

David takes a deep breath. "The kids get on. It's a _birthday party-"_

George just keeps watching him, one eyebrow arching.

"What?"

"What did Sam say?"

That makes David laugh, more loudly than he means to. _"Sam?"_ and then he's silent again, staring at George.

"Sam's fine" he says, his voice nearly cracking a little. "Sam's _great."_

George stares at him, and then says "Just-"

"What?"

But George just stares at him for another moment, arms folding tight, as though wrapping around the words he wants to say, and then says "Nothing."

* * *

Ed blinks suddenly, as the sight of the red felt-tip attempt at a heart-shape looping across Sam's arm catches his gaze in the mirror.

"It's-" He turns to Justine, who's sitting next to him, engrossed in her phone.

Valentine's Day, Ed thinks stupidly. It's Valentine's Day today. Right.

It's not like they usually make a big deal out of it. At all. They asked him about it in an interview once a couple of years back, and Ed had babbled something about a surprise, which had set off a torrent of winking headlines, when they hadn't even eaten _dinner_ together, he doesn't think, and they've never really-

And then Ed laughs because it would have to be on _Valentine's Day_ that-

"What?" Justine says, looking up at him, finally, distracted, and Ed looks at her, her limp hair slightly rumpled, her too-big glasses emphasising her overlarge eyes, giving her an owlish look, and Ed can tell she's dying to stare back at her emails.

"Nothing" he says, and looks back at the road.

When they pull up through the gates of Chequers, the black security pillars descending into the ground for them, and then rising smoothly up behind, the gates swinging shut silently behind them, Ed catches a glimpse of the boys in the backseat. They're staring at the iPad, which they've been watching for the entire drive, barely glancing up at him or Justine. Daniel grips a small printed Union Jack flag in his right hand, in a tight little fist. They've barely glanced up at the sight of the gates.

Will they, if they live here? Will they notice any of it? _Should_ they notice it?

Do _Cameron's_ kids notice?

He could ask Cameron-and then Ed's thoughts slam straight into Cameron's hands on his back, how his hands couldn't cover all of Cameron's shoulders at once, that moment when he'd pressed against Cameron's hip, warm and hard and-

"We're here" he blurts out, too loudly, voice scrambling to sound cheery, which is when he sees one of the huge wooden doors opening, Ed can see through the maze of cars already filling the driveway, and Cameron's standing on the steps, and God, it's-

Cameron's in jeans.

Jeans.

And a navy blue jumper-

That's it.

There is nothing Ed should be noticing about that outfit.

Nothing.

Nothing at-

Ed tries to drag his gaze away from where the jumper clings to Cameron's shoulders.

_OhGodohGodohGod._

* * *

"Nice to see you-" Cameron is pressing a kiss to Justine's cheek-Justine sort of nuzzles her cheek against his, which is what she often does when someone leans in to kiss her. Cameron crouches down to hug the boys and Ed blinks as Daniel huddles into Cameron's chest, with a small, toothy smile. "Is that from Flag Day, yesterday-" He's got one arm around Sam's shoulders, examining the flag in Daniel's hand.

"Yeah, we-we-picked out _flags-"_

"I _know,_ it was at school, wasn't it?"

How does Cameron _do_ that?

The thought lances through Ed, bright-white, searing. How does he _know_ , how does he just _know_ this stuff, about school and parties and games, how does he not have to-

How does he make them look at him like-

Cameron's staring at him. Ed stares back for a moment, trying not to focus on Cameron's blue eyes, trying not to-

_It's only political._

"Th-sorry?" he asks a second too late, wrenching his thoughts firmly back into place.

Cameron, watching him, still with an arm around Daniel's shoulders, blinks slightly. But then, almost before Ed can decide whether or not he imagined it, Cameron shakes his head. "I didn't say anything" he says, without looking away from Ed, and there's a slight quirk of a smile at his mouth.

* * *

Ed's wearing a grey jumper.

There are a hundred things that David should be focusing on here, but all of his thoughts are currently scrambling over each other to reroute themselves to that one simple fact that seems to be very determinedly jumping up and down, shouting, waving its' arms, demanding David's attention.

Ed's wearing a grey jumper.

And jeans.

David tries very hard not to look at the jeans as he leads them into the house, trying to slow his breathing.

It's any other day. They're just guests. They're just here to celebrate with Elwen, because he and Ed Miliband happen to be mildly, perhaps a tad friendly for a Prime Minister and Leader Of The Opposition.

It's just Miliband. It's just-

"So-" David glances at Justine, who's peering round the hallway, her neck craning a little as she strains to catch a glimpse of the high ceiling and David curses himself for forgetting his manners. The boys huddle together, blue stripes and red, the latter peeking out through Sam's half-unzipped jacket.

"Have you been before?" he asks her quickly, trying to offer a solicitous smile.

Justine blinks, the way she seems to whenever one gives her a question she hasn't had time to prepare for. "Oh-ah-"

Ed glances at her, then away, as if not sure whether to corroborate her words before she's spoken them.

"Ah-a couple of times, yeah, I think-you were in the Cabinet, weren't you-" This to Ed, whose head jerks up suddenly as though he's just been shaken awake. "Oh-yeah, I think I was in-it was with Gordon, wasn't it?"

"We stayed a couple of times" Justine explains, and she smiles, but it's a little too wide. "But it was a couple of-yeah, it must have been, what, eight years ago now-"

"Right. Before our time, then, before we-so cruelly usurped-"

Justine laughs, a little too loud with relief. David, looking at her, at her too-wide eyes, as though struggling to take in every inch of the room at once, to gather every scrap of information they can, remembers that mean jab of a thought in his chest yesterday, when he'd had his mouth buried in Ed's neck, and feels a small wrench of guilt, even as he feels his cheeks burn treacherously.

"Hi-" and David's heart does another, far weirder wrench as Sam appears at the top of the stairs with a grin, making her way down, still brushing the ends of her hair, which bounces on her shoulders happily. She's smiling, no hint of a stretched tightness of her jaw, and David feels something plunge in his chest, a sudden splash of hot salt in his eyes that he has to duck to hide.

It's only then, as David half-bends, finding a conveniently-placed crease in his trousers to iron out with his fingers, that Sam, who's been standing silently throughout the exchanges, meets Samantha's knees head-on and wraps himself safely there.

"Hi-" Samantha immediately crouches, wrapping her arms around him, stroking his dark curls with one hand-they and his big, dark eyes, so like his father's, stand out against the red stripes of his jersey. "Did you have a nice ride?"

As Sam burbles something at her, David's eyes dart, almost immediately to Miliband. Miliband's gaze is fixed on him, on the crease in his jeans, but at David's look, Miliband's jaw clenches tight, and he turns away, an actual angling of his body.

David stares at him for a moment, then abruptly comes to a decision.

"I was just saying to Ed, yesterday-" he says, and he can almost feel Ed's shoulders stiffen. "There's-ah. Something I forgot to show him last time I was here-chunk in one of the tables your boss's phone took out once-"

Samantha and Justine-Justine a second too late-laugh, but David sees a muscle jump in Ed's jaw very slightly. He meets Ed's gaze, keeping his own smile in place, his heart thundering, as he notices that Samantha's helping Sam inch down the rest of his zip that he's been fumbling with, wriggling out of his grey jacket.

For a moment, he wonders if Miliband's going to refuse the invitation, use the excuse of not noticing, just missing it. But then, abruptly, Miliband nods.

* * *

David doesn't speak until they're on their own, in the state room used for Cabinet meetings. Then, when the door's closed behind them, he turns, with a breath, to Miliband.

Miliband's standing an inch away, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Don't ever do that to me again." His voice is a low, fierce whisper.

And all right, David might throw up his hands at that, but honest to _God._

_"What?"_ He stares at Miliband, incredulous, the hand falling to his side. "What on earth have I done _now?"_

Miliband stares at him, his lips taut, but they tremble ominously. "You-for God'th th-sake-you-" He looks away sharply, then back. "You can't make me-do-with you-by asking in front of-"

"Oh, _for God's sake."_ David can't help but roll his eyes. "You actually thought I was...I was threatening, implying-"

"Well, what _else?"_ Ed's voice is a half-shout that cracks in the air and he takes a step towards David, then looks away. David stares at him, breathing hard.

"I wanted to see if you were all right" he says quietly, and then Miliband's eyes snap to his own, his mouth parting slightly. "You-"

David shakes his head. "You-look, for God's sake, can we just-this doesn't need to-"

Ed just stares at him. "I-"

David turns away abruptly, a thought squeezing tightly in his chest.

He and Miliband never have trouble talking. Ever.

If this is the way Miliband wants it to be-

"Sam wath there-" Ed suddenly bursts out, wrapping his arms around his chest as if suddenly cold. "She wath-she wath jutht-" He turns back to David suddenly. "How is she-how-"

Ed's eyes widen and, with his eyes huge and dark, David feels something melt in his chest.

"Ed" he says softly, and then his arms are around his shoulders.

Miliband tenses against him. David winces into his shoulders, but holds on, one hand pressing into Miliband's grey jumper, waiting for him to say something or do something or-

Miliband's body gives a strange, shuddering little gasp. He doesn't quite lean in, but he doesn't move away, either.

"It's all right" David says, a little stiffly, aware of Ed angled against him, of the heat of their bodies together doing bizarre things to his thoughts, making him jut his waist as far away from Miliband's as possible, so that they meet at the top, like a flower tilting itself to the sun.

"We've just-" David pulls back, stares at Miliband, as Miliband's gaze roams over his face, glances away, cheeks burning, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Um-" David's voice falters. "We can-just act like normal. For a day. We-"

He doesn't mention the night. Because the thought of Miliband at night and Miliband and bed and Miliband _in_ bed-

"We can just-act like normal" he says, angling himself a little further away from Miliband. "In front-if you like."

Miliband lets out a long, shuddering breath, and he nods. David stares at him, at the compression of his lips, the rapid blinking.

Abruptly, he leans in and presses his mouth to Miliband's in a quick, soft kiss. Miliband's mouth presses back clumsily in a blissful second, and then he pulls back and _"Don't"_ cracks out of his mouth.

David blinks. Miliband's standing still, shaking a little.

"Don't" Miliband says, his voice choked.

David feels a strange coldness grip the inside of his chest, and wants to slap himself.

"Sorry" he says, and he presses his lips together, forces his gaze to the floor for a moment, clears his face.

When he looks up again, face carefully neutral, Miliband, who had been half-turning away as if about to run for the door, has stopped, standing still, watching him. David meets his gaze determinedly and Miliband's lips move very slightly.

But "Not here" is all he says, almost in a half-whisper and then "You said like normal" and then turns towards the door before David can remember that this isn't normal for them at all.

* * *

Samantha waves at the boys as they slide down, one after the other, splashing into the water. Justine had managed to dress Sam in his trunks and armbands, guiding his arms through them stiffly, not knowing if she was being too rough or too gentle. Sam had stood there placidly enough, extending his arms and lifting his legs when required, but he'd looked slightly past Justine, big-eyed and expressionless, even when she awkwardly patted his curls, angling herself away, arm not quite bridging a distance.

Now, she watches as Daniel beams when he notices Samantha wave, splashes the water triumphantly, and Samantha grins, taking a sip of her cocktail. "I saw-" she calls out to him, in answer to Daniel's proud little cry.

She turns to Justine, head tilted to one side. "Are you sure you won't have one?" From anyone else, this-the third time Justine's been asked-would have been grating on irritation, but somehow Samantha manages to make the question easy, innocent, with the tilt of her head, the fall of that dark brown, shiny hair.

Justine smiles back cautiously. "I-don't really drink-"

Samantha shrugs. "Oh, lucky _you._ I should probably try that-" she laughs, and her sister appears over her shoulder, her eyes ice-blue to Samantha's darker turquoise. "Can I have hers' then?" she asks impishly, nudging her chin over Samantha's shoulder, batting her eyelashes with the mischievous grin of someone who knows they can get away with anything, simply because no one ever stays angry with them for long.

Justine had been relieved to spot Frances when they walked through to the pool. Frances had already been in a bikini, threading her hands through her auburn hair, talking to Luke, who'd been shaking the water out of his hair, when she'd spotted Justine. "Oh-"

Frances had wrapped her arms around her immediately, as usual not seeming to mind Justine's slight stiffness, the way she almost startles at the sudden affection-Frances doesn't hug many people at first, but when she does, she hugs them hard.

Now, Justine glances around at the other women. Samantha and Frances, she knows, at least. Since their arrival, she's been introduced to Venetia, who she's at least met before, with her sharp blue eyes and waterfall of blonde-brown hair-they've met at several Evening Standard parties, which at least allow them to say something to each other-but Sarah, who Justine's met a couple of times, while her smile is friendly enough, her dark eyes are sharp, as though waiting for something to catch hold of, and Justine had felt herself stiffen slightly in response.

She hasn't seen much of Ed since they arrived. Most of the other fathers, including David Cameron, are in the pool, but Ed is sitting to the side, perusing his phone. Justine feels a stab of something at the sight, can't quite work out if it's irritation or pity.

"Hey-" and Frances touches her arm gently. "Are you coming in?" She tilts her head to the water.

Justine tries not to press her lips together too tightly. "No, I didn't bring-"

"Oh, it's all right, you can borrow one of mine" Samantha says lightly, as though that's in any way feasible.

Francs must catch the glimmer of panic on Justine's face, because she says, quickly, "Oh, we can decide later."

_"Aren't you coming in?" Frances had grinned at her mischievously, standing by the edge of the mountain pool. "The guides said it was fine."_

_Justine had swallowed, crossing her arms defensively over her chest, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. "I-"_

_Frances had already been throwing her backpack down, stretching, and unbuttoning her blouse, auburn hair catching the sunlight, which seemed to dance in it. Justine had stared at the lights, mesmerized, before hastily turning her back as Frances turned round, dropping her blouse on top of her backpack with the confidence of someone who'd been sharing a dorm with other girls since she was eleven years old. "It's just us."_

_Standing there, Justine had mouthed silently as she crossed her arms tighter, feeling gauche and young in her T-shirt and shorts as Frances let her skirt drop to the ground._

_"Honestly" Frances had said, standing there in her bra and knickers as though that was a perfectly normal thing to do. "No-one will see. It's only me, honest."_

_Justine had been too busy scrabbling for something to say to make any reply when, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Frances had reached round and unhooked her bra, letting it drop to the ground._

_Justine's arms had fastened tighter around her chest, and Frances had caught her eye, grinned. "What? No-one can see" she'd said again, tossing her head with a laugh, as Justine had stared at her and thought frantically, No, but I can, I can._

Now, Justine turns and, eyes wandering around, finds Ed again. He's leaning forward now, saying something to Cameron, who's got his arms on the side of the pool, leaning out of the water. Cameron's grinning, saying something with a slight toss of the head, but Justine, watching, sees Ed look away for a brief moment, his jaw tensing as though physically restraining himself in his seat.

* * *

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't look at him._

He's been telling himself that since the moment, an hour or so earlier, when Ed had been standing there, staring at Samantha hopelessly, because _she knows, she knows, fuck, she knows_ and how could she just _stand there_ , with her dark hair shining over her shoulders and her easy smile, holding a mug of tea and chatting to Ed's fucking _wife_ , when _she knows, she knows-_

And then Cameron had just _strolled out._ Strolled out, laughing at something Osborne had said, and touching his bare shoulder, _his bare shoulder, God-_

Cameron's shoulder was bare, oh God, oh _God, Cameron's shoulders were bare, oh God, oh God-_

Ed's head had swum. He'd stared and tried not to stare and then, and then, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth, and then-

"Hi, Miliband" Cameron had said easily, casually with that grin, and after the couch and the office and Cameron's mouth on his neck, after _all that,_ it's _Hi, Miliband-_

Cameron's eyes had flickered up and down Ed's body, quicker than a second. But something answering had flickered in Ed's chest, and his mouth had been horribly dry and his stomach had been swooping with an awful, delighted kind of excitement, and there was Cameron's skin, warm and soft, and Ed could almost feel it under his hands, and then Cameron just _grinned_ at him and, oh God, he's doing this deliberately, he _has_ to be doing this deliberately, he, he-

Osborne was staring at him. Cameron was grinning. Ed was staring helplessly at Cameron's stomach. Oh, _Christ._

"I-" He'd jerked his head up to stare at Cameron, every inch of his body taut with _OhGodohGodohGodohGod_ _he's doing this deliberately he's doing this deliberately-_

"Er-"

Ed had stood there helplessly, mouthing silently, his face burning more and more, until Cameron had said, still smirking slightly, "There are the girls, by the way."

Somehow, Ed had managed to stagger to the side of the pool, which is where he's sitting now, staring into space to try and avoid his gaze roaming anywhere-anywhere _near-_

Cameron had had the sense not to ask him to swim.

* * *

Ed is sitting there, desperately trying to distract himself from his own thoughts when Cameron waves at someone, and when Ed turns his head, he spots the same man with glasses as from Oxfordshire-James.

This time, he's accompanied by a small, slim, dark-haired woman, and three children, two little girls, one about Nancy's age, and a small boy, a little younger than Daniel and Sam, clutching Melou's hand, all spilling into the pool in swimming costumes and trunks, and a chubby-cheeked golden-haired toddler, outfitted in armbands, carried on James' hip.

"James-" Cameron's already clapping him on the back, pressing a kiss to the woman's cheek. "Hi, Melou-"

"Sam let us in" James is laughing, lifting the toddler up, cuddling him into his chest. "You saying hello there, Rob-" This with a chuck under the toddler's chin.

Ed watches them chatter, envying them the ease of it, and looks down at his knees. He squeezes his hands tightly together, staring unseeingly at the pool.

"Ed?" Ed looks up suddenly at the sound of his own name, blinking.

James is standing at his side, holding the toddler and a grin.

Ed blinks. "Oh" he says, heart swelling a little at the attention. "Hi."

He's scrambling up when James indicates the space next to him. "May I-?"

"Oh, yeah-sure-"

"Just waiting for Melou to check the waterwings-" he explains, with a kiss to the toddler's head, and juggling him on his knee as he squirms a little. "How've you been, anyway?"

_I've stuck my tongue down your Tory friend's throat three times since we last spoke and now I'm trying not to think about the fact he's about six feet away from me, shirtless._

"Good" Ed says, instead of causing a national scandal.

James juggles the toddler from knee to knee. "This is Rob, Robert-"

Ed waves awkwardly at the toddler. "Hello, Robert-"

Robert peers at him, smile peeking out into his chubby cheeks under his golden head. Baby-fat fingers wave happily. James laughs.

"Is-is he your youngest?"

"Yep" James declares happily, smacking another kiss on the toddler's cheek. "Our little one-and we've got Amelia, Mary, and Fergus-" he says, indicating each one-Fergus is still standing on the other side of the pool, his arms extended, as Melou checks his armbands-or, as James calls them, waterwings.

"Amelia's our eldest-and Dave's godfather to Mary" James says casually, pointing at a blonde-haired little girl holding Florence's hand as they walk along the side of the pool.

"Da-Cameron's godfather?" Ed says, eyes falling on Cameron again. Cameron's talking to the little group of older girls, who Amelia's just joined, doggy-paddling through the water determinedly.

"Yeah. I am to Florence" James says, with another kiss to his son's cheek. Off Ed's look, he says "Confirming your views of Old Etonians, I suppose."

Ed shakes his head. "No, I jutht-" He stares at Robert, wondering how so many of them have so many children. Maybe it's an upper-class thing.

But he glances at James, then back at Cameron, who's now yanking himself out of the swimming pool, lifting Florence in the air, blowing raspberries on her stomach. His chest squeezes tightly. He wonders why he was actually thinking how nice it all sounds.

James follows his gaze. "He's good with kids, isn't he?"

Ed can't help but feel a smile soften at his mouth, even as he watches Cameron laughing, nestling Florence against his chest.

"Yeah." His voice is soft, warmth suffusing his chest slowly.

God, this whole thing would be much, much easier to navigate if Cameron could just be a bastard to him the whole time.

Ed glances up to find James watching him closely, a small smile hovering at his mouth. Ed looks away quickly, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. His eyes fall on Cameron again, watching him quietly, heart beating hard, slow and fond.

"You know, he was like that at school" James says, easily, juggling Robert to his other knee. "You know, we used to have to do these volunteer things when we were in E Block and D Block-"

"E Block-"

"Year Ten and Eleven." James winks. "Etonian terms."

"Oh."

James grins. "But we had to do some stuff with the school cadets and things-you could choose that-or do some volunteer work. Dave chose both."

"Really?"

James nods. "Yeah. I mean, he was all right in the cadets, but there was this little old woman who lived all on her own-I think she was a widow, she didn't have kids, that kind of thing-and Dave used to go down there every Thursday and just sit with her, chat, make her cups of tea, and that kind of thing."

Ed feels his cheeks tickle with warmth. He looks away, his eyes lingering on Cameron, who's kissing Florence's cheek, tugging her ponytail gently.

"I mean, he didn't have to" James says, eyes on Ed's face. "Just-suppose he wanted to."

Ed opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"Full of surprises" James says, with a small grin.

Ed nods slightly, but he bites his lip and stares at David Cameron, cheeks slowly warming until he's sure he could light up the whole pool.

* * *

David tells himself he doesn't need to be nervous.

Of course he doesn't.

He's just going to swim over and ask Miliband if he's all right.

It's perfectly reasonable.

It _is._

Which is why it takes a good five minutes for David to decide, very calmly and rationally, to make himself swim over.

"Miliband-" he offers courteously, as he reaches the side of the pool. There-that wasn't too bad. That was coherent, at least.

Reasonable.

Miliband glances at him, then away. For a heart-sinking moment, David thinks he isn't going to answer, but then Miliband manages a "Hi".

David treads water, feeling awkward and not entirely liking the new sensation, which is probably what makes him open his mouth and let the first thing that comes to mind spill out.

"That shirt could be flattering if you chose to jump in with it on, Miliband."

Miliband's eyes flash and David could punch himself.

"No, no, wait, Miliband, no, please-"

But Miliband's already scrambling upright and even as David's attempt at a protest dwindles into silence, he stalks off down the side of the pool.

David's hovering there, watching him miserably, when a splash of water interrupts him, and he looks round to see James grinning.

"Oh. Hi." David's gaze roams again after Miliband's back.

"Trouble in paradise, then?"

David jumps. "What?"

James grins. David looks away, feels his cheeks heat. He stares forlornly after Ed's retreating back.

"Did you have an argument?"

David rolls his eyes.

James nudges him. "Got to say" he muses, staring at him. "You never managed to make me do that. Even with that two-hour debate on the quad about inheritance tax. That lasted....a while."

"God, yeah. Black February."

James nudges him. "So, what happened?"

David sighs, shakes his head. "Oh, he's just. I just. He-"

He stares at Miliband, now hovering awkwardly at the other end of the pool.

James raises an eyebrow. "To be honest" he says slowly, "you never got this worried about anyone else you argued with."

David doesn't look at him, but he can feel the heat creeping into his cheeks.

James is watching him, moving an inch closer. "He wants you to talk to him" he says, with a grin.

David wills himself to stay silent. But, staring at Miliband, he feels himself hump one shoulder grumpily. "Doesn't seem like it" he hears himself mutter sulkily.

James snorts. "You sound about ten."

David rolls his eyes.

James watches him for a moment, then says quietly "He wants to talk to you."

David sighs, and doesn't realise until he's shoved his head into the water, heading firmly for the other side of the pool, that it isn't quite the same as the first time James said it.

* * *

"The wanderer returns." Ed glances up in surprise at the voice, hastily blinking himself out of his own thoughts.

"Oh-" he says, staring at Cameron's sister-Tania, he manages to remember, after a moment. Labour-supporting. The one who led him in last time.

"Yep!" Tania holds up her hands. "Your core vote. Looks like you've got some other supporters, today." Ed blinks and looks round, only to see Tania pointing at James.

"Oh. Yeth. Yeah." Ed turns round, one hand rubbing his elbow. "I-um-yeah-I-"

"Here with the boys?" Tania grins, gestures behind her. "Here are our two-"

A young boy steps out from behind her, glances up at him from his phone, hair flopping over his forehead casually, and sticks out his hand with an easy charm. If he hadn't reminded Ed of Cameron immediately, the grin and handshake alone would have done it. It makes Ed feel even worse.

"Oli" Tania smiles, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "And Xan's over there-" She gestures at a smaller boy with blonder hair that otherwise looks like a younger version of his brother on the other side of the pool, giving Oli a pat on the arm as he ambles over to the bench, yanking his shirt off on the way. Watching him walk, Ed can see he's edging into the odd, awkward gait of boys who are just scrambling into adolescence, and the thought that that might be what Cameron looked like at the same age sends a pang through his chest.

"Your boys here?" Tania asks again, with a grin-Ed wonders if there's some quirk in the Cameron DNA that imbues each of their offspring with this kind of easy confidence.

"Um-yeth. Yeth-they're-they're in-" Ed gestures to the pool. He feels as though all his thoughts are taut strings in his chest, threatening to snap any second.

"And, um-Juthtine's over there. My wife." He jerks his head awkwardly to the crowd of people congregating round the pool, though he can barely make out Justine in amongst them through the growing mist in his eyes.

"Oh, right-which-"

"She's-she's wearing-" Ed tries frantically to remember what Justine is wearing. "She's-um-"

He can't remember. He looks away, shaking his head. He should remember. He should know.

Cameron would know. Cameron would know what Sam was wearing, and for fuck's sake, why is Cameron crashing into every fucking thought?

Ed chews at his thumbnail, pulling a strip off. He stares at Cameron in the distance, watches him wave as Oli, now clad only in swimming trunks, jumps into the pool, Cameron slapping him a high-five.

"They look alike, don't they?" Tania says cheerily, taking a sip of her glass of wine. "God, I remember when Dave was that age."

Tears flood down Ed's face. He doesn't even have a chance to stop them-just lets out a strangled gasp and then bites his lip hard as the tears pour out. But the small sound in his throat must make Tania look at him because she does and then she's taking his face in between her hands and saying "Hey. Hey."

Ed shakes his head, trying to look away, face burning through his tears, but looking away would mean anyone else seeing, and the situation is already one Ed can hardly bear to comprehend actually coming to pass.

"Hey-hey-"

Tania takes Ed's hand, which Ed had been raising to cover his face (in the hopes of climbing between his fingers and hiding for, conceivably, the rest of his life), and before he can protest, tugs him after her. Ed almost stumbles, only thinking at the last moment to glance back, searching for anyone's eyes. But he only gets a brief, scrambled impression of the pool before Tania tugs him to the door, the cold air slapping him in the face and giving him a chance to catch his breath as he becomes aware of the stones cracking under his feet, and that they're approaching the small wooden block of changing rooms.

They're not like usual changing rooms, of course. The floors are deep honey-brown wood, the walls patterned, lighter wood and tiles, the showers individual double-sized cubicles with soap and scented and non-scented shampoo, and staff cleaning every half-hour. They also manage to defy the conventions of all changing rooms and be dry, smelling faintly of something sweet, herby.

"I know" Tania says comfortingly, as she steers Ed onto a wooden cushioned bench, even as he sniffs and blinks round, confused. "Not like the usual changing rooms, are they?"

Ed manages another sniff and an embarrassed shake of the head. Tania pulls out a handkerchief-of course Cameron's family would carry handkerchiefs, Ed can't help thinking now, and somehow that makes him cry harder.

"Hey. Hey." Tania touches his hand. Ed can barely look at her. He's being comforted while he cries at a child's birthday party. Ed cringes, as though he could burrow inside himself.

"Is it Dave?" Hearing his name in Tania's smooth, rich voice makes Ed cry harder again. "Has he said something?"

Ed half-shakes his head, looks away. It's like he's being asked if Cameron stole his _teddy,_ for God's sake. _You are fucking pathetic,_ he thinks miserably.

"OK." Tania's voice is lower now, quieter, and then she hugs Ed hard.

Ed has a confused impression of the scent of roses, before Tania's hands are rubbing his back and his eyes squeeze shut and he cries.

"Shhh." Tania keeps rubbing his back, soothing him. "It's all right. It's going to be fine."

Ed listens like the words are a life raft. Tania's hands are soft and warm, but there are calluses on her fingers, when she rubs his hand between both of hers'. Ed stares at them unthinkingly, then jumps, not wanting to be rude, as if Tania would even care in a situation this bizarre.

"They're from the trowels" Tania laughs, noticing the direction of Ed's gaze. When Ed meets her eyes with a guilty look, she laughs again, gently. "I'm a landscape gardener-didn't Dave mention it? Typical."

The mention of Cameron makes tears start to Ed's eyes again. "Hey." Tania wipes them away with her hand. "It's all right. It's OK."

Looking into Tania's handsome, kind face reminds Ed that a gardener is the last thing he would have expected one of Cameron's sisters to be and that just reminds him of all the things he would never have expected of Cameron himself. Ed looks away from her with a gulp, but she doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she just holds onto him, lets him sniffle quietly, wipes at his eyes for him. She knows when to make him talk, and in that way, she suddenly reminds him even more of her younger brother. This time, the thought's the slightest soothe of relief.

* * *

David only manages to get the briefest glimpse of the back of Miliband's retreating head before he disappears through the door with Tania. He frowns, treading water slowly back and forth, trying to tell himself that that's perfectly fine. Of course it is. Completely normal. Probably good for Miliband.

No need for David to be concerned. None at all.

Absolutely, totally, utterly, and completely fine.

"Dave?"

"Can you keep an eye on the kids while I go and check on Miliband?" David blurts out.

George stares at him. "Sorry, what?"

A couple of minutes later, David is dragging himself out of the pool and pulling his flip-flops on, George's sharp, contemplative look following him. David feels his cheeks flush a little, but keeps heading for the door, forcing himself to walk slowly, telling himself that there's no hurry, there's no need to rush, everything is perfectly, perfectly normal and usual and-

As he pushes open the door, shivering a little in the air, he pictures the way Tania's fingers wrapped around Miliband's wrist, like it was nothing, and David can take a pretty good guess that she never had to think twice about what anyone else watching might think-

_I want to_ , lances sharply into David's chest, almost stealing his breath. He stops abruptly, as the icy air shoves into his skin like a blade. He-he can't-he-he-

David shakes his head and sets off firmly across the driveway, telling himself that he cannot in any way, be jealous of his own sister.

The changing rooms are the only realistic place they could have gone-there are far quicker routes back to the main house and David can't picture Miliband fancying a bracing walk in weather like this. He hesitates outside the door, wondering for a brief moment if he should knock, and then he slowly pushes it open, telling himself that there's hardly any danger of _that._

He steps inside cautiously, blinking as his eyes adjust to the warm, dimmed lights. He can hear the faint thrum of the underfloor heating, feel the vibrations through his legs, and underneath are faint whispering sounds, which, even as David listens, taper off into a choked little gasp.

David moves so fast he almost falls over. He half-stumbles round the corner but he barely notices, righting himself, because the first thing he sees is the back of his sister's head, half-turning towards him, widening her eyes meaningfully, and next to her is-

David almost throws himself at him. Literally, almost stumbling as he drops down so that he can peer into Miliband's face, his heart pounding sickly in his chest, his hands grabbing at Miliband's shoulders.

"Miliband-" His voice comes out half-cracked, then louder. "Miliband-what-what-"

"Dave-" He hears Tania's voice, but his hand's on Miliband's cheek, and he's half-pulling him closer, trying to lift his face. "Miliband-hey, what-what on earth-"

Miliband's staring at him, his eyes huge and dark and wet and David opens his mouth, ready to ask what and how and why and then his arms are half-around Miliband's shoulders and God, he's dripping wet, he must be soaking Miliband, but his arms just tighten and he's hugging him.

* * *

Ed barely manages to look up before Cameron's arms are around his shoulders.

He blinks, because his chest is suddenly full of Cameron's skin and arms and shoulders and then his face is pushed into Cameron's warm, wet neck, and his warm, soap-scented skin-

Cameron pulls back, blue eyes finding Ed's, and Ed stares, utterly bemused at the sheer suddenness of his arms around him. "I-"

"Are you all right?" Cameron's words are frantic, cracked, the usual smoothness of his tone marbled as Ed stares at him. "Are you-what happened, Miliband, what-"

"I-" Ed can only stare back at him and then he realises Cameron's hand is pressed into his cheek, wiping his tears.

Ed blinks. "I-I-"

Cameron's arm is still tight around his shoulders, even as he scrambles up onto the bench next to him, Ed pressing into his shoulder even as he's vaguely aware that Cameron's soaking his clothes.

"Hey-" Cameron's voice tickles his ear, a hot breath that makes the hairs rise on the back of Ed's neck. "Hey. What happened?"

Cameron's eyes move over Ed's shoulder then, and Ed turns to see Tania watching them both, her eyes trained firmly on her brother's face. For a moment, the two siblings watch each other, eyes roaming each other's expressions. Ed feels Cameron tense slightly against him.

"I-" Cameron starts, voice almost a breath, and then Tania gives Ed's arm a sudden squeeze and slides to her feet.

"I'll give you a minute" she says, her voice light enough, but her eyes linger on her brother's face, and when Ed glances at him, Cameron looks away.

"Thankth" Ed manages to say quietly. Tania nods and Ed just stares, trying to convey more than just the word. "Thank you."

Tania stares back at him. Her face is almost inscrutable, but her eyes are soft.

"It's fine" she says, and with a touch of his shoulder, she's gone, letting the door close quietly behind her, leaving Ed alone with Cameron.

* * *

David gulps.

It's only now that he realises that he's hugging Miliband.

That he's been hugging Miliband in front of Tania.

Or, more accurately, that he just burst into the room and wrestled Miliband into his arms like he'd just spotted him in a crocodile's mouth, then spent several minutes clutching him like a limpet.

In front of his sister.

Oh God.

David clears his throat, forces himself to loosen his hold around Miliband's shoulders a little. All right. All right. Just-

"What happened?" He and Miliband both glance at Miliband's hand, lying only a couple of inches from his own, and for a moment, both of them think David is going to reach out and take it, but at the last moment, he just tightens the arm that's still halfway round Miliband's shoulders.

Miliband just stares at him, lips slightly parted, as though trying to puzzle out a sum, before he says, a little strangled, "You-um-"

David almost jumps away, his arm leaving Miliband's shoulders so quickly he almost hits him in the head. "Oh. God. I-ah-"

Miliband opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. David looks away so he can speak without sounding as though his voice might crack in two.

"Sorry" he says, almost not sure what he's apologising for. "Miliband, I'm sorry."

The words ache in his chest.

Miliband turns back slowly to look at him then. David can feel him, even as he doesn't look himself, staring fixedly at the ceiling, suddenly painfully aware that his leg could press into Miliband's if he moved it another inch.

"I-"

"Miliband, I-" David clears his throat, pushing the words out as fast as he can. "Miliband, I didn't mean to-to-" He lifts a hand. "Upset you."

Miliband gives an odd little jerk of movement next to him.

"I was trying-" David half-grimaces at how stupid the words sound. "I was trying to make you laugh."

Miliband's head snaps up. "Make me _laugh?"_

David's heart's thudding, but slowly, he forces himself to meet Miliband's eyes.

"Yeah" he says, softly. Then "I-I wanted to-I know how to-I-I can always...do...that."

David snaps his mouth shut and wishes he could kick himself.

"Except now, obviously" he manages to mutter, half to himself.

There's a silence, then a cracked, squawking sound, and when David looks up, it's to see Miliband's face dissolving into half a giggle.

David feels the smile flood his own face, drowning his ribs. He can't hide the grin, relief stabbing at his mouth, his hands opening and closing at his sides.

He glances back at Miliband, to find Miliband's dark eyes searching for his own.

"Look-I wasn't trying to get on your wick earlier." He turns round, so he can face Miliband properly. "I was just-just trying to-make you-cheer you up."

Miliband half-shrugs. "I know."

"You know?" David shuffles round to look at him. "You were-um-"

Miliband lets out a long, embarrassed sigh, and looks away. "Can we not talk about it?"

David has to fight with himself before he forces out an "OK."

Miliband's shoulders sink a little, and David, before he can stop himself, asks "Did you tell Tania....anything?"

Miliband's head lifts and he fixes David with the long, Paddington Bear-stare.

David looks away, fighting back a smirk. "OK. Suppose not."

There's a long silence before Ed says, slowly, "I didn't mention kithing you against the wall, if _that'th_ what you mean."

David turns back to Ed and stares at him. He splutters out a laugh, then "Look, we can stop if you want to."

Miliband's eyes widen, then narrow. "Do _you_ want to?"

David stares at him. "No! No, it's-I mean, no." He manages to wriggle closer. "No. No. Look. Miliband. It's just-I didn't-I didn't know if I'd- _made_ you-I didn't want to-have-pushed you."

Miliband looks up sharply. _"Pushed_ me?"

David shrugs. "I didn't want you to feel. Like that. I just-" He shrugs. "I wanted to check."

Miliband stares at him for a minute, then says slowly, "I thought I was the one who kithed you?"

David stares at him. Slowly, awkwardly, Miliband's mouth curls into a grin.

David splutters out another laugh, even as Miliband looks away, still grinning. "I-"

David doesn't even think about it this time-his arm falls around Miliband's shoulders and he's pulling Miliband in and then he's kissing him.

He feels Miliband's mouth open in surprise and then kiss back, soft and warm and gentle. It's different from the other times they've kissed-just their mouths together for a brief, warm moment, and when they break apart, they stare at each other, Miliband blinking a little. "Um-"

David looks away. He's suddenly very, very conscious that he's sitting here in a pair of swimming trunks.

"Anyway-" He clears his throat.

"Yeah" says Miliband, too quickly.

They glance at each other, then away again. This time, they sit there for a long moment in silence, their arms almost but not quite touching.

* * *

"Dad's going to help me edit my video" Natasha informs the other girls for the seventeenth time-Nancy's been keeping count. "He's going to use some of the videographers that he found for your dad-"

Nancy tries very hard not to roll her eyes. Bea, as usual, cannot trouble herself with similar restraint behind Natasha's back, and Liberty hastily ducks her head under the water to hide her mirth. Amelia glances between them, the bemusement of being a year younger clear on her face.

"Liberty's in it, aren't you, Lib?" Natasha says, oblivious, as Liberty rears back up from the water, with a valiant attempt at self-control. "You're one of my backing dancers."

Liberty compresses her lips, with what Nancy has to admit is impressive composure. "Um, yeah. Yeah. I'm-we-do a sort of-conga dance-"

Bea, already sticking her tongue out at Nancy behind Natasha's head, has to turn away, her shoulders shaking. Nancy glances down, biting her lip, before she too dunks her face in the water, her eyes squeezing tightly shut, giggling, until she manages to bounce back up, coughing a little too hard to choke back her laughter.

"It's going to be great" Natasha carries on, regardless. "We're filming it all around school-"

"If she tells me where she's filming it one more time-" Bea murmurs, making Nancy jump-she hadn't even noticed Bea swimming up behind her. "I'll drown myself. Right now."

Nancy sniggers, Bea's chin resting on her shoulder. Natasha turns at the last moment and Bea ducks Nancy's head under the water, saving them both as Nancy dissolves into a stream of giggles.

When she pops up again, turning her head away from Natasha, she looks round to see a familiar figure walking in, wavy brown hair falling around her shoulders, and groans. "God."

"What?" yells Elwen, seeing his sister's face from where he's just emerged, triumphant, from an underwater handstand. Nancy jerks her head in the same direction and Elwen, following her gaze, slows his bouncing, Will following suit. "Oh."

"What's up?" Bea says, clearly seizing any opportunity of diverting the conversation from Natasha's revolutionary video.

"Auntie Polly" Perry informs her, rolling his eyes as he shakes the water out of his thick dark hair.

"What's up with Auntie Polly?"

"Nothing's up with _her._ It's _her"_ Nancy informs them, clearly.

Bea blinks at her. "What?"

Nancy sighs and jerks her head at their cousin, trailing long behind her mother, earphones wedged in.

"Martha" Elwen supplies helpfully, to Amelia. "She hates Dad."

"Oh, yeah." Liberty's brow furrows a little. "Isn't she the one who got into trouble at Easter or something?"

"Yeah. The fox-hunting argument or something-when we were at Granny's-"

"Yeah, _and_ her mum made her go and sit in the car."

Perry snorts. "Doesn't she hate your dad because her dad used to fancy your mum or something?"

Amelia giggles, sweetly. Elwen sticks his finger in his mouth. "I'm going to throw up, seriously."

"Seriously?" Natasha asks, wide-eyed, perhaps thrilled by the rarity of a topic in the world not concerning her.

"Yeah, they went to school together or something." Nancy takes in her older cousin's leather jacket and ragged jeans. "She always tries to look poor, even though she's rich, and she rolls her eyes whenever Dad speaks. Dad says she's his favourite distraction."

"Yeah." Bea's eyes narrow. "She's the one who hates my dad."

Amelia glances between them, awed at the dramatic goings on of eleven-year-olds.

"Yeah." Bea folds her arms. "She's a bitch." Amelia's eyes widen, awestruck.

"Isn't her dad an actor or something?"

"Yeah." Elwen turns round. "They split up ages ago though."

"Probably didn't like his kid's face" Bea mutters, making Natasha cackle.

"That's Dulcie and Lois" Nancy points out, gesturing to the two little girls wandering along behind-anyone could tell the two were sisters, even at a distance, with the same light brown hair, same freckled pixie-ish faces. "They're all right, though. They go to your old school, don't they?" This to Liberty and Natasha.

"Well, yeah-" Liberty breaks off from drying to do one of her Greek dance routines upside down under the water. "But, like, we didn't really-see each other. Dulcie's three years below or something."

"Where's my dad?" Bea asks suddenly, glancing round.

Will, regarding the hater of his father with interest, jerks his thumb back over his shoulder. "Over there."

Bea folds her arms. "If she says anything about Dad, I'm gonna deck her."

"She is quite tall" Natasha points out, somewhat fairly.

Bea shrugs. "All right, I'll bite her ankle off, then."

As Liberty is questioning the sharpness of Bea's teeth as relevant to said biting ability, Nancy, glancing towards the outside door, sees Dad step back in, rubbing his arms slightly. She blinks, glancing up through the panels of glass overhead at the overcast sky, but any speculation is quickly forgotten by the sight of Dad approaching Auntie Polly and Martha. Elwen grins, splashing Perry meaningfully. Nancy watches, grinning slightly.

"Hello, Polly-" Dad presses a kiss to her cheek, then turns his grin, which widens instead of dimming, eyes dancing with mischief, on the sulky Martha. "Any good ideas to give me today, Martha?"

Martha folds her arms with a hump of the shoulder, glowering at the floor, despite her mother's dig in the ribs.

"What a shame. Always look forward to our little chats-"Dad smiles at her for another second, long enough for Nancy to burst out laughing, and have to hastily dunk her head into the water.

"I suppose we'll have to do without your life experience" Dad is telling her cheerily when Nancy bobs up again, as he drops down to the younger girls-Dulcie, oblivious to her big sister's fury, vines herself around Dad's legs, which Dad takes advantage of to beam directly at Martha.

"Martha thinks she knows everything because she was in a film-" Elwen informs them.

_"Eight years ago."_

"And only because her dad's an actor" Liberty mutters. Off Nancy's look, she explains, "I heard Dad telling Mum."

"Elwen?" Auntie Polly bends down at the side of the pool, and Elwen, with slightly more grace than the rest, swims over.

"Happy birthday, sweetie!"

Elwen crinkles his nose slightly at the nickname. "Thank you."

"And this is-"

"Bea, Will, Liberty, Natasha, Amelia" Nancy recites, before Polly can remember their last encounter. "You met them before."

Polly's expression falters and Nancy mentally notes that perhaps Bea's unforgettable to anyone. "Of course-I remember-this is, ah-"

"Yeah, I remember too" Bea announces loudly enough for her voice to be heard all around the swimming pool. Nancy kicks her under the water.

Natasha giggles. Amelia bites her lip hard. Bea just glowers back at Auntie Polly, who seems to be considering the best way to escape the situation.

"Well." She forces a smile, patting down her blouse. "I suppose we'd better be getting ready." This with a tug at Martha's sleeve, who's regarding Bea with equal dislike.

Elwen smiles, almost sweetly. Nancy just rolls her eyes and turns away, pinching her nose to try to do an underwater somersault.

It's a pity, because this means her turning away from Bea, which means that she misses Bea swimming closer to the side of the pool, which means the first that Nancy knows of Bea's decision not to take the higher road is when she hears Bea's voice, ringing clear as a bell round the pool. "Martha?"

Martha stops, still half-turned away. Nancy freezes. Liberty, next to her, draws a hand swiftly across her throat.

"You're not going to call my dad a Dalek again, are you?" Bea asks, head on one side, sweet as can be. "You know, since you failed your exams?"

In the silence that follows this statement, Nancy does have the time to consider that maybe since Martha would like to be poor, failing her exams is rather a good thing. This way, she'll get to go to a school like Nancy's where you don't have to pay, and since she talks so much about poor people and making things the same for everyone, maybe she could want that anyway, and therefore, failing her exams could possibly be a good thing for Martha.

That's the excuse Nancy sticks to, anyway, five minutes later, when Mum crouches down at the side of the pool, drawing her hand across her throat, and demanding to know why Martha has just stormed back to the main house, and exactly how that is connected to all eight children suddenly finding themselves helpless with laughter, and then inquiring as to whether any of them would like to spend the rest of the day sitting at the side, as she's heard that's a reliable cure for sudden, unexplained fits of hysteria.

Nancy's almost sure Dad winks at her as he goes to help Lois into her swimming costume, but only almost.

* * *

Justine only gets a brief glimpse of the girl who crashes through the door of the pool but a few minutes later, watching Samantha hiss something into David's ear, jerking her head towards the door while David Cameron seems to bite back a grin, she's distracted by a faint splashing at her feet. She glances down to see Elwen yanking himself out of the pool.

"Oh" she says, a little taken aback, it only just now occurring that she hasn't actually said hello to Elwen yet, despite the fact he's the whole reason they're here.

"That was Martha" Elwen says without preamble, indicating the doors through which the girl had stormed with his head. "She's our cousin. She wants Dad to be angry at her all the time, but he thinks she's funny."

"Oh." Justine blinks, at a loss as to what to say to this candour. "Oh, dear."

She looks at the little boy, who doesn't seem perturbed by her silence. Instead, he glances at her, chestnut hair slicked to his head. "Would you like a cup of tea or something?" he asks politely, and Justine blinks. "No-no, I'm fine, thanks."

The little boy shrugs and shakes his head, squeezing the ends of his hair with his hands. Justine studies him. He's a little older than Daniel and Sam, but not by much. She glances around the pool for them, watches as David Cameron, sliding back into the pool, still grinning from his wife's ticking-off, seizes Daniel under the arms, spinning him round, making Daniel dissolve into giggles. Justine can't remember the last time she did that.

She's sure she planned to, at some point. When she used to imagine having children, when she was a child herself, she supposes she must have pictured these sorts of things. What she remembers, when she used to lie in bed at night, curling her fingers into the duvet whenever her brain halted over the times tables or algebraic facts or the periodic table, whichever she was reciting over and over before she fell asleep, trying to hold the pattern in her head, is thinking about when to have children. When to be married and have a house of her own and what age to get married and how to choose their clothes and their schools and how to choose it all the right way. She's sure she must have thought about these parts too-swimming, parties, picnics.

But somehow, even when she tries, picking them up, juggling them awkwardly in her lap, trying to smile at them, wedging laughter into her mouth-

"Are you-um-having a good birthday?" she asks Elwen now, cupping the half-empty glass of wine she was eventually talked into between her palms.

Elwen looks up, then again. "Oh-yeah, thank you" he says, politely. "I'm doing something different with my friends, though."

"What's that, then?"

Elwen grins, gap-toothed and pleased. "Paintballing."

Justine blinks. "Paintballing?"

Elwen nods. "Yeah! It's brilliant! You get given toy guns and you splat paint-bombs at each other." He beams. "Mum's taking me."

Justine stares at him. "Oh." She tilts the wine glass awkwardly, takes another sip. "Is that-um-are there a lot of-those sorts of parties, then?"

Justine hears her own voice, faltering slightly, the words awkward in her mouth. Elwen frowns slightly. Justine pulls at her blue blouse self-consciously, glancing at Samantha, who's hugged in a navy-blue-and-white striped sweater and black trousers. Anyone else would have blended in in that outfit, but Samantha manages to draw the eyes to it without even trying, giggling at something Venetia's saying to her with that shiny fall of hair. Justine looks down at her own shirt, plucks at it nervously.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Elwen asks quizzically, with childish concern, tilting his head to one side.

Justine manages a smile. "Yeah." She scrabbles for something to say. "What did you get for your birthday?"

Elwen lights up. "Dad got me a new cricket bat, because he's going to help me practice this summer-"

Justine listens to him chatter, trying to nod and smile in the right places. She's surprised to find it's not as hard as she'd have thought, and tries to carefully set aside the fact she can't remember the last time either Daniel or Sam chattered away with her like this, like they didn't have to remember what they were saying, or the last time she wanted them to.

* * *

David's heading out of the Hall, where the caterers are still serving food, when he's stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Dave."

David turns to see his sister standing behind him. "Yes?"

Another person might have tried a different opening, but Tania just looks him straight in the eye and says "I need to talk to you."

David blinks. "What?" he says, lightly, trying to stave off the niggle of panic suddenly worming its way between his ribs. "What d'you mean?" he asks, lowering his voice as he glances around, and as Nancy runs past him, red dress she'd insisted on wearing even though they're going straight back in the pool after dinner billowing a little, Liberty and Bea following her in their own dresses, Bea tugging at the tulle on hers' a little.

Tania just shakes her head, and tugs David by the wrist.

"What-"

Tania shakes her head, and just pulls David's arm.

"Tan- _Tan-"_ He glances back into the Hall, gets a brief glimpse of his son and Will chucking a sausage roll from one hand to the other in striped rugby shirts, while Florence kaleidoscopes around them in her flounced-skirt dress and star-patterned white leggings, dragging Sam by the hand, before he's tugged out of sight.

Tania pulls David along by the hand, shaking her head, until they reach one of the living rooms and then she turns round and leans against the door behind her, folding her arms firmly across her chest. "What's going on, David?"

David swallows, throat suddenly much thicker than usual. "What?"

Tania just stares at him. "What's going on, David?"

David opens his mouth, but Tania holds up a hand before he can speak. "Don't say what again, Dave." She looks up at him, her dark blue eyes stormy. "What's going on?"

Out of his three siblings, Tania's always been the one that's least like David. It's never made any difference, in many ways; Alex was the eldest, the one that David shared a room with, shared a school with; Clare was the baby, the one who sat with Gwen and got sneaked treats from the dining table, with the three older ones running in after the evening meal to feed the baby, delighting in half-picking her up, half-shunting her across the floor, sometimes carrying her between the three of them, with Clare playing her role with gurgling dimple-cheeked good grace. Tania had always been the fiery one, the one who would be challenging Dad across the table, about fox hunting, tax, welfare, with her blue eyes sparkling, the way they did when she looked over her shoulder at David, the four of them crawling through the undergrowth, Clare's hand in Alex's as she was helped along, Tania tugging David, murmuring "Come on, chicken", her little tongue darting out at him.

"What do you mean?" he manages, and Tania's eyes soften only slightly as she leans back against the door.

"What was going on, David?" she says softly, stepping towards him now, tugging her dress as she swings her hands between them, twisting them together. "You ran into that changing room like someone's head was going to come off."

"His teeth aren't that sharp." David mutters the retort before he can stop himself.

Tania's eyebrow arches. "How would you know?"

David freezes. Tania's mouth opens and closes, momentarily. David glances at her, then away.

"David." Tania's voice is quiet.

David takes a deep breath and, heart pounding, meets her eyes. "I was _worried_ about him."

Tania's eyebrow arches. "Worried about him?"

"He-" David can feel heat creeping up his cheeks. "We get on."

Tania just looks at him. "David."

David clears his throat. "I was bloody _worried_ about him. That's-that's all." He tugs at his shirt, clears his throat again. "He seemed upset."

Tania shakes her head. "David, I _know_ you."

David is silent.

Tania steps an inch closer to him. "Dave, are you-honestly, Dave, are you really saying that if-if George or Michael or-or James or anyone-you'd have run in there like that?"

David swallows. "I-"

Tania chews her lip and her eyes dart away, then back to his. "You had your arms around him" she says slowly. "You put your arms around him, David."

David's mouth is dry, his cheeks burning. He can hear his heart thudding. "I was just-trying-"

Tania's just looking at him.

David's eyes flicker to the floor. "It's Elwen's birthday" he says softly. "We should get back."

Tania stares at him, but neither of them move.

Tania looks away, then back at him. "Do you remember when we were kids and Dad took us rabbit-hunting?" she asks, quietly, eyes on her brother's through the dim light.

David blinks. "What?"

Tania shakes her head. "I can't remember where it was. It might have been at Wooley Park or something, I don't know."

David stares at her. Tania meets his eyes, gaze very steady in the half-light.

"You were completely fine the whole time. When we were herding them into their holes and everything. You went on my horse with me, because you didn't like riding on your own."

The lamps of the room are dim, but Tania's eyes glimmer softly in the light as she watches David. "Alex was on his own. You were fine. Then Alex got down to drag out one of the rabbits we'd caught and you saw him skin it. He pulled at it by the ears." Tania stares at him. "You burst into tears. You threw up over the side of the horse. You wouldn't look at it. You were shaking, Dad had to take you home."

David stares at her, his heart beating very, very hard. There's a long silence.

"Why are you telling me this?" he says, his voice much quieter than he means.

Tania shakes her head. "I don't know. You-just thought you'd be able to handle it until you got there. Saw it. You." She swallows, looks away, then back at David. "You didn't know what it'd feel like to see it hurt."

David is silent. Tania's hand brushes his arm, then squeezes slightly. There's a very long silence in the dark room.

* * *

"Are you sure you have to go?"

Ed pulls his coat tighter around him in the cold night air. Even though it's mid-February, the winter shows no signs of lifting. It's freezing, and as Ed glances around at the countryside that sprawls out around Chequers, he can only barely make out the outlines of trees in the darkness, touched with the chill of the night sky.

Justine, standing at his side, hugs her coat more tightly around herself. "Yeah, I've-" She glances away at the grounds, as though they asked the question. "I've got to go over some of the Ocensa cross-examination, see if there's anything-anything the company could zero in on if we're recalled to court."

"Right." Ed nods, pulls his coat tighter around himself. "Well, I-well."

He looks at her, drags his foot across the stones in the driveway.

"Try and make sure the boys get to bed on time" Justine says, a little too hastily, as though relieved to have grabbed the words. "They could get overtired."

"Right-yeah. I'll-um-" Ed's pretty sure that the kids are going to be staying up late and he can hardly make his be the only ones to go to bed early, but he can already sense there's no point telling Justine.

"Well-" He looks at her, wondering how long the taxi will take, wondering if he can possibly go and find the boys to say goodbye, whether that would take them up to the moment of the taxi arriving.

"Justine-" They both turn at the voice, Ed's heart doing an odd sort of leap, to see Cameron hurrying out of the oak doors, holding a scarf.

"Here-" he says, extending it to Justine, who accepts it fumblingly. "Samantha said you could borrow it, it can get cold on the platform-"

"Oh, I-"

"Oh, it's fine-" David assures her, giving her a quick, easy peck on the cheek, _how does he do that-_ "Sam's got loads, and it gets cold down there, very draughty-" He gives her a grin as he steps back, tilting his head to the side.

_God, stop getting your charm all over everything_ , Ed thinks bitterly.

And then, _Stop being so fucking comfortable._

"Sure we can't persuade you to stay?" Cameron's saying, and Ed's sure, for an awful moment, that he's going to scream or howl or just start seizing handfuls of stones and _throwing_ them at Cameron, when there's the sweep of headlights across the country and the crunching of gravel as thank God, the taxi, pulls up.

It's only when Justine's climbed into the taxi, Ed pressing an awkward half-kiss to her cheek, and they're standing there, watching it disappear through the gates that Cameron says, quietly, "You know I wasn't trying to wind you up, don't you?"

Ed shrugs slightly, manages a nod. He's acutely aware that this is the first time he and Cameron have been alone since the changing room.

Cameron steps closer to him. "Hey. Everyone's going back in the pool again in a bit. Are you going to come in?"

Ed looks away. "I-ah. I can watch."

David hesitates, then "I just-"

He steps closer. Ed can almost touch him.

"No, no, it's just-" Cameron sighs. "I just-wish you'd come in with us."

Ed turns to stare at him. Cameron looks away. Ed stares at him. He can't make out Cameron's face in the darkness, but he's almost sure Cameron's blushing.

"Why?" he asks, so quietly that it nearly gets lost in his throat.

Cameron purses his lips. Ed can almost feel his jaw tense, even as he glances down, then up again. Ed can just make out his eyes, bright in the darkness. "I-"

"I-don't-I don't-" David smiles, then shakes his head a little. "It makes me feel-I'm seeing you sitting on your own-and-"

"You don't have to feel _thorry_ for me-" Ed almost splutters the words out, dragging his coat tighter around him, turning towards Chequers, and then Cameron's hand fastens in his sleeve.

"And" he says, a little too quickly, even as Ed tries to roll his eyes, half-heartedly tug at his sleeve. "I miss-I like being with you, you know."

Ed's very still, silent. His cheeks are burning. His heart is beating very, very hard.

"I just-" David clears his throat. "I just-ah-wanted to-let you know." His hand touches Ed's arm. Ed stills. David's hand is a warm weight on his wrist.

"Anyway-" Cameron goes to turn away and then Ed says "David."

Cameron stops. Ed swallows, his own hand moving, almost touching Cameron. The tip of his finger touches Cameron's wrist.

Cameron's eyes meet his. Ed doesn't say anything, doesn't look up, but for a long moment, they stand there, their hands touching, until slowly, Cameron inclines his head and they both turn back to the sheet of light spilling out of the front door.

* * *

David's in the middle of judging Nancy and Elwen's handstand competition, Sam trying to hold both sets of legs away from the other, with Michael trying to restrain Bea's hands from shoving at Elwen's knee, when Sam nudges him. "Your friend's here" she murmurs into his ear, with a grin, and when David blinks at her, she winks, before turning to cuddle Daniel, whirling him around in the water.

David turns with a frown, forgetting to avoid the splash of water as Nancy flips herself upright, and his eyes fall on Miliband.

Miliband, wading into the pool.

Miliband, shirtless.

Miliband-

David stares.

He stares at every inch of Miliband's skin, that's usually covered up by those shirts and ties and-

Oh God, and he's seen Miliband shirtless before, he has, he absolutely has, he, he-

But-but _now-_

David stares at Miliband as he steps into the pool, watching him swim forward, watching the water glisten on his shoulders, watching him shake his head a little, like a dog, and David's heart squeezes fondly, as he watches Miliband swim.

"Dave-" Sam touches his arm.

David blinks, shaking his head. "I-" He turns to look at her. "I-um-"

"Your tongue's hanging out of your mouth" Sam informs him, with a grin. David immediately snaps his mouth shut, feeling heat flood from his cheeks down to his shoulders.

"I chatted to him" Sam tells him quickly, and before David can say anything, she's turned back to help Michael restrain Bea from knocking Will into the water by his ankles, while David tries hard not to look anywhere near Miliband's bare shoulders.

* * *

Ed feels almost an inevitability when Cameron swims up to him a few minutes later. Ed, who's been half-heartedly watching Daniel and the other boys jump into the pool, doesn't look at him for a few moments, but Ed can feel his gaze, heavy on his face. He tries not to grin.

"Hi" he says, eventually.

Cameron stretches beside him, arm reaching out behind Ed's head. His hand brushes Ed's shoulder and Ed feels goosebumps erupt up his neck, a warm shudder through his body. "Er. Who's winning?"

It takes Ed a moment to realise who he means.

He jumps, blinking rapidly. "Oh. Um-" He glances at the boys, trying to focus on the jumping. "Um-I didn't realise I was supposed to-"

Cameron frowns slightly, but as quickly as it appears, it flickers into a grin almost splitting across his face. "You got in."

Ed glances down to hide the grin that wants to spread across his face. "Yeth."

"Is this-is this all my doing?" Cameron's grinning at him, making something squirm in Ed's stomach pleasantly. "Can I persuade the-worried about the election now, with all this-"

"With all your cuthtomary humility, Cameron-"

Cameron's shoulder nudges his own and Ed glances away, laughter shaking its' way out of his chest.

"Sam said you guys had a chat" Cameron says, and his voice is even softer.

Ed glances at him. "I-um-yeah."

He'd hung back, as they'd headed back into the mansion, wondering how best to get around the odd, pressing guilt in his chest at Cameron's words, and Cameron being waylaid by Chris had been partly a blessing.

Ed, confusion pulling tight in his chest, had taken the opportunity to wander around. He's been to Chequers before this-whatever with Cameron before, of course. He's been here with Gordon plenty of times, of course, but with Gordon, everything was the next piece of work. There was never really time to explore.

Ed had heard the words echo in his head and cringes.

God, has Cameron turned every thought in his head into some sort of bloody _innuendo?_

That had sent his thoughts in another direction altogether and Ed had felt himself blush so deeply that, even alone, he'd ducked his head. Oh God.

It was as he'd been cringing in the dim lamplight of the hallway, wondering how in God's name he was ever going to be able to look Cameron in the eye during a TV debate at this rate, when he'd heard a soft voice say "Ed?"

Ed had stopped, glancing about with a start. The corridors might have been lit with low-hanging wall lamps, but the shadows fell long across the carpets, creating an eerie darkness.

Then one of the doors had opened, light slicing into the corridor, and Samantha's head had popped out, the light catching her hair. "Hey-" Her hair had bounced in chestnut waves on her shoulders. "You get lost?"

Ed had blinked. "Oh. Er-no-I jutht-" He'd scrambled for a polite way to say he was just being nosy.

Sam had laughed. "Did Justine take the scarf?" she'd said, eyes suddenly widening as Ed shuffles his feet in the light and, at a gesture from her, he'd stepped into the small drawing-room awkwardly.

"Um-yeah-yeth, she-she said thankth-" he'd said, a little too quickly. "Th-how should we bring-"

"Oh, don't worry" Sam had assured him breezily, fluffing her hair up with both hands. "She can get it back whenever, it's fine-"

Ed's eyes had fallen onto the small sketchpad on the red sofa. He could make out some faint pencil sketches, something that looked like a suit. Ed's head had tilted, craning for a glimpse before he'd noticed Samantha's eyes on him, an amused smile catching her mouth.

"Oh-" Ed had jumped back, embarrassed. "I'm-th-sorry-I-"

"It's fine." Samantha had dropped onto the couch, almost bouncing girlishly, and patted the space next to her. Ed studied her nervously, then slowly lowered himself down next to her. Samantha had tugged at some of the papers, gathering them up.

"They're drawings" she had explained, without prompting. "Sometimes, I like to come in, when it's all getting a bit hectic. It's a bit of a project."

"Oh-" Ed had glanced at her, chewed his lip. "What-is it for work or-"

Samantha had crinkled her nose. "Kind of. More for-what I might do in the future, once the kids are older. When Dave's less public."

Ed had heard the unspoken words, and blushed fiercely, looking at his knees.

Samantha had peered at him under her hair, grin dimpling her cheeks, before she'd coaxed a picture into his hand. Ed had stared at it, made out what looked like the shape of a dress, with a belt round the waist. Ed had squinted at it. "I'm-I'm not great with clothes-" He'd tried to laugh awkwardly. "I'm-I'm not-"

"Neither's Dave-" Samantha had curled her legs up underneath her, taken another sip of wine.

"You're-you're great at drawing, though" Ed had managed, stupidly, the words too big in his mouth. "I mean, I mean-you're-you're-you must know you're-you're great at-you're-"

Ed had rammed his mouth shut and looked away. _Shut up. Shut up._ He could feel his cheeks burning.

"God" he'd heard himself mutter, and then he'd turned back to Samantha. "God, I'm so-God-"

His hand had caught Samantha's glass as he'd gesticulated, and a few drops of wine had spattered out onto one of the loose pictures.

"Oh- _Chritht-"_

"No-hey, don't worry-" Samantha had caught Ed's sleeve, even as he'd tried to wipe the picture clean frantically. "Hey-hey-look. It's laminated. See?" Samantha had waved it a little with a grin. "Plus, I've got plenty of copies."

She'd laughed gently at the stricken look on Ed's face, turning her head to place her glass back on the table, one hand touching his. "When I started drawing these, Florence was only a few months old" she explains, with a grin. "And I was still breastfeeding. I usually had her on my knee when I was drawing, so she was always spilling things, knocking things-"

Ed had kept his gaze on the floor, feeling his eyes prickle ominously. Oh God. He couldn't cry in front of another person today. For God's _sake-_

"Hey-" and Samantha's arms had reached out. "Hey, Ed. Ed."

She'd hugged him hard right there, Ed's face pressed into her shoulder. Samantha's hair had stuck to his cheeks, which, Ed had realised to his horror, were wet. Oh, bloody _hell._

"Hey. Ed." Samantha's hand had circled his back slowly, her chin over his shoulder. "Ed. It's OK. I promise."

Ed had turned his face into her shoulder. The words had come out half-muffled into her hair. "Why don't you hate me?"

Samantha's arms had tightened around his shoulders. They'd sat there for a long moment, both of them silent, Ed's heart beating hard.

Then Samantha had spoken, her voice tickling Ed's neck, one thumb stroking his cheek slowly.

"Well" she'd said quietly, almost sadly. "You didn't choose it, did you?"

Ed had been still, very still, against her, and then she'd said his name very softly. "Ed. I know. I know."

Ed had bitten his lip hard, more stinging-hot tears spilling out. Samantha's hand had pressed into his cheek until Ed could breathe steadily again, until they could pretend that his cheeks were just flushed.

"Dave really wishes you'd come in" she'd said softly, a few moments later, nudging Ed's hand with her own. "You know, into the pool with the others."

"Oh-" Ed had felt heat rush to his cheeks again, looked away. "I-I jutht-"

"I mean, you don't _have_ to." Samantha had squeezed his arm. "It's just-I don't think-I think Dave doesn't want you to be-sitting at the side-because of him."

Ed had looked up sharply, flushing, his heartbeat rapid again. "It's not."

Sam had taken his hand too easily. "No, I know" she'd said. "It's just the way Dave is. He worries about you."

"About me?" Ed had been startled enough to almost jolt upright.

Samantha had just nodded. Her eyes had held Ed's, and when he'd looked away, blushing fiercely, the corner of his eyes had just caught her small smile.

Now, Ed shrugs non-committally and looks away, pretending to watch Samantha with the children. He can feel Cameron's eyes on his face. An odd shiver through him enjoys it.

"James was telling me thome thtories" he says, almost glancing at Cameron, then away.

"About me?"

This makes Ed grin slowly, shaking his head. "You are winding me up with the Tory egotism now, aren't you?"

Cameron cocks his head. "Mmm. Maaa-aaaybe."

Ed shakes his head and looks away, grin almost carving his face in two. "He said you were a cadet" he says, with a quirk of the eyebrow to Cameron.

"Nope."

"Nope?"

Cameron tilts his head back, glancing down at Ed. "Nope. No. The school had a Corps training thing, like junior army, but not the proper sort.

"He also th-said you were a Good Samaritan."

Cameron chokes. "A what?"

Ed shrugs. "Something about you helping the elderly. And stories and going and sitting with someone and-"

"Ohhh. That." Cameron swims round in front of him, leaving Ed with an odd feeling of relief, with a drop of disappointment at the same time. "Yeah."

Ed shrugs slightly.

Cameron grins. "What?"

"Nothing. Jutht-" Ed shrugs again. "Wouldn't have expected that of you."

"Oh, thanks a lot!" Cameron smacks the surface of the water with the flat of his hand, even as Ed bursts out laughing.

"I didn't mean it like that, I jutht meant-"

"You just meant I was such a complete _bastard-"_ Cameron shoves his shoulder gently, making Ed squawk. "What-what did you imagine I did-shove-shove little old ladies out of wheelchairs and leave them-it's _your_ party that rips off pensioners, Miliband-"

Ed dissolves into giggles. "Shut up-"

He sends some water splashing into Cameron's face before he can stop himself. He almost freezes, but Cameron splashes him back before he can do so. "C'mere-"

Ed retreats slightly, still splashing.

"C'mere-" Cameron chases him, face crumpling into a shout of laughter as he splashes Ed again and Ed does the same back, Cameron grabbing his wrists gently. Ed forgets to pull away, laughing harder than he has since that lunchtime in Cameron's office, and for the first time, forgetting to check himself afterwards.

* * *

Ed is lying on his back, staring at the canopy of his four-poster when he hears the knock at the door.

He hasn't slept at Chequers in years; not since he was in the Cabinet. He still remembers walking in the first time, peering around, his own head tilting back, mouth falling open as he craned to see the top of the ceiling, until a sharp jab in the ribs had brought him back to earth.

With a hastily smothered gasp and his eyes watering slightly, he'd glanced indignantly to his right to see his brother regarding him with an amused look and an arched eyebrow.

"Ed" he'd said, taking in his brother's outraged expression with a cool smirk, eyes flickering up and down as though resigned to finding Ed wanting. "You look about _ten."_

Ed had flushed painfully, feeling the colour rush up to his hair. David had spared him another cursory, almost pitying glance, and then looked away, walking briskly ahead with the air of someone who'd been there countless times before. Ed had stared after him, an angry lump swelling in his throat, before he'd followed his brother, shoulders hunched, head down, not looking anywhere anymore.

Now, as Ed turns over sharply, as though that can ram all thoughts of his brother out of his head, he hears the knock at the door.

Ed frowns, sitting up. He wonders briefly if it could be one of the boys, and then remembers, with something like a stab, that they know not to wake him up at night.

The knock comes again and Ed swings himself out of bed and, slowly, with something like apprehension, approaches the door.

He opens it an inch, peering suspiciously through the gap and an eye almost meets his own.

Ed half-jumps back, stubs his toe slightly with a gasp. "Ow!"

"Bloody hell, Miliband." Cameron regards him, his eyes bright with amusement, which softens when he sees Ed's grimace. "I didn't know I was that startling."

The pain throbbing in his toe, Ed is sorely-in all senses of the word-tempted in that moment to show him one of his fingers, but he can only imagine what Cameron would make of _that._

He grimaces instead, and Cameron's eyes soften still further. "Can I come in?"

Ed manages a nod and, still grimly biting his lip, pulls open the door to let Cameron inside.

"Here-" Cameron takes his arm gently, helps him to the bed. "Honestly, Miliband. I'm starting to think I'm hazardous to your health."

"Jutht the country's" Ed finally manages through gritted teeth.

David gives him a quick wink. "Trivialising the electorate, are we, Miliband?"

Before Ed can answer, David grins and drops to his knees.

Ed nearly jumps out of his skin. "What-what are you doing?!" The words come out, mortifyingly, as an indignant squeak.

Cameron's fingers wrap around Ed's ankle and he grins up at him annoyingly, in a way that makes Ed yank his pyjama top down quickly. "Checking you've still got all your toes, Miliband." He grins for another moment. "Was there something else you thought I was doing?"

Ed folds his arms and stares away from him, in little doubt that he's blushing furiously.

He tries very, very hard not to let his mind linger on what Cameron could possibly mean by that.

"Nope, all present and correct." Cameron gives Ed's bare foot a tap. "Looks like you haven't bartered any of them away as proof of your socialism-or to the SNP, I know they're more your shout these days-"

Ed is sorely tempted to kick him. But then, Cameron's eyes, bright and mischievous through the dark, soften, almost deepen, and slowly, he lowers his gaze back to Ed's foot. Ed doesn't move away but his heartbeat's becoming audible, his breathing deepening.

Cameron's gaze rests on his bare skin, intent in the darkness. Slowly, one finger traces the arch of Ed's foot very slowly, the lightest tickle on his skin.

Ed's fingers knot into the duvet. His breath is caught in his chest. His eyes could fall shut but he's staring at the top of Cameron's head, unable to see those blue eyes through the darkness.

Another finger joins Cameron's first, tiptoeing lightly around the arch of Ed's foot now, sending shivers of pleasure dancing down Ed's spine with each little tap, each little brush of his skin. He can hear his own breathing, embarrassingly loud in the air between them, his fingers gripping the duvet tighter.

Cameron's hand strokes one side of his ankle now, finger circling the bone very slowly, then presses into part between his ankle and his foot very sweetly, and the touch jolts through Ed like a lightning bolt, deep and rippling pleasantly through his body. Ed's gasp is torn from his throat, and Cameron gentles his touch, stroking the place softly, making the skin there shiver.

Ed can't breathe. He can't think. Cameron's stroking his foot softly, his fingers working his way up to his ankle. Ed's quivering, each breath a startled little gasp, fingers knotting tighter and tighter into the duvet, as Cameron strokes, a long, sweet stroke up the arch of his foot, and a strangled little sound emerges from Ed's throat, and Cameron looks up at him, then, and his blue eyes are blazing, his cheeks flushed as he breathes. Ed's gaze meets his, just as fevered, and Cameron slowly circles Ed's ankle with both his fingers, sends a shudder of tickling pleasure through Ed's body, both of them taking slow, ragged breaths, and then David presses his fingers into Ed's ankle very gently and pulls away, kneeling up, their foreheads almost but not quite pressing together.

They stay there like that for a long moment, almost but not quite touching, Cameron's fingers still encircling Ed's ankle, until Cameron, abruptly, lets go, and gets to his feet. He paces up and down the room by the side of the bed, one hand in his hair, still breathing hard.

Ed doesn't speak. His face is burning. He's breathing hard, fingers curled into the blankets. He looks up at Cameron, who's standing still, hand still knotted into his hair. Ed wills the aching hardness between his legs away, breathes as slowly as he can, tries to think of something, anything, to calm himself down.

"I-" Cameron's voice is a whisper. Ed turns to look at him and catches a glimpse of Cameron's blue eyes for a moment, before Cameron looks away, face anguished. "I-I-ah-"

He resumes pacing up and down. Ed's eyes shut for a moment, and he takes a deep breath, before he hears himself say, the words faltering but firm "Stop that, would you?"

The pacing comes to an abrupt halt. Ed swallows, shifts slightly on the bed.

"I-" Cameron's voice is faint.

Ed's voice is quieter this time, almost a whisper. "Just sit down."

There's a short silence, and then he feels Cameron come closer, feels him sink down on the bed next to him. Ed's eyes open, but neither of them looks at the other for as long as they can stand it.

Ed steals a glance at the same moment Cameron does. "I-"

"What did you-" They speak at the same time.

Ed opens and closes his mouth but Cameron speaks first, softly. "I just-I wanted to check if you were all right."

It feels, for a moment, bizarrely similar to that night just a couple of weeks beforehand-standing on the landing in Cameron's house, telling him off for bumping into him.

God, was that only weeks ago?

Ed shivers suddenly, aware of the cold.

They both glance at the pillows, then quickly away. Ed is sure he can make out Cameron's cheeks pinkening again in the near-darkness.

"Anyway-" Cameron says, slowly. "I-" He wraps his arms around himself, draws his feet up, shivering slightly. "I wanted to ask-"

"Oh, get in the bed."

It comes out so softly that Ed can almost believe he didn't say it at all.

Cameron's head jerks round to meet his gaze, eyes sharp and bright in the darkness. "Ed-"

"You're cold." Ed snaps the words out a little too loudly, because maybe that will make them feel truer. He gets up off the bed abruptly, strolls round to the side, wrapping his arms round himself. _"I'm_ going to, anyway. If you want to shiver."

He climbs into bed as briskly as possible, heart pounding, telling himself firmly that it doesn't matter one jot to him either way.

There's a silence. Ed is very aware of Cameron's weight at the end of the bed, even though the thing's so big, Cameron's nowhere near his feet.

Then slowly, the mattress lifts. Cameron's footsteps pad up the side of the bed.

Ed tells himself he's not holding his breath as the mattress sinks again. As he feels the blankets move against his skin as Cameron wriggles under.

Oh God.

He can feel Cameron's body heat.

Oh God.

Ed lies there, counting to ten silently. He makes it through three times before he lets his eyes drift slowly to Cameron.

Cameron's curled on his side under the blankets, eyes fixed apologetically on Ed. Ed swallows, heart thudding. He's suddenly very aware of the canopy that falls around the four-poster, how it makes the rest of the world seem far away, concealing them both together.

"Chequers is always cold" Cameron offers, with a grin that makes Ed's heart thump painfully. "I don't think they ever learnt to update the central heating. I'm sure Jacob Rees-Mogg would love it."

"I have been here before, you know." It comes out sharper than Ed means.

Cameron's brow furrows. "God, Miliband. I was only mentioning it."

Ed blushes, and he looks away, feeling small and sulky. Cameron looks away, too, and Ed stares down at the blankets, before, on an instinct he barely allows himself to acknowledge, he wriggles closer.

Cameron doesn't say anything, but, after a few moments, his eyes flicker back to Ed's. Ed swallows, lets himself look back.

"Warmer?" he asks, voice almost a whisper, and when Cameron nods, Ed feels warmth suffuse his own chest, and his tight grip on the blankets finally starts to relax.

* * *

David swallows, soaking in the warmth from under the blankets. He shivers a little, his body still adjusting.

Miliband's eyes study his face through the darkness.

"You should have put a dressing gown on" he mutters suddenly. "You're freezing."

David shrugs. "I don't usually feel the cold too much. Got used to it at Heatherdown."

Miliband doesn't say anything, for once, but his brow creases, and his eyes are very bright in the dark.

David manages a small laugh, but it comes out oddly harsh in the night. "They-ah-the belief was that it toughened us up, being cold. You know, got us-ah-used to things. And we were only little, so-"

He looks away, voice trailing off. He tugs at his pyjama sleeves automatically, wincing a little.

Miliband's very still next to him. He's curled on his side, eyes watching David intently, bright in the dark.

"What is it?" Miliband's voice is soft.

David has to drag his gaze back to Ed's. "I-ah-" He clears his throat. "I-just-couldn't sleep too well. And I wanted to be sure. That you were all right."

Miliband's eyes widen very slightly in the darkness. It's a moment before he says, a teasing lilt in his voice, "Thinking about me?"

David almost jumps at the tone. "I-um-"

Miliband's crooked grin is just about visible. David could almost touch it.

He swallows. "You're on my mind" he admits, and he can almost see Miliband's shoulders sink a little, as though relieved.

He turns over, so he can face him properly, tracing the blanket between his fingers. "I wanted to just-make sure you were OK" he admits. "We didn't really talk properly, earlier."

"Mmm." Miliband's head cocks to the side. "Do we ever?"

David nudges Miliband's leg with his own foot before he can stop himself.

Miliband stills for a second, but doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes rove over David's face, his breath catching.

"Are you all right?" David's voice is a whisper.

Miliband watches him for a long moment before he nods slowly.

David opens his mouth to say something-something like _Good_ or _All right, then_ or _You can tell me, if you're not_.

His hand is lying on top of the blanket. So is Miliband's.

"Is-"

David swallows hard, barely able to keep his voice steady.

His hand creeps closer.

"Is-"

His fingers flutter around Miliband's. He hears Miliband's breath catch.

"Is this?" His own voice is a whisper.

His hand covers Miliband's, a slow sinking of warmth in the dark between them.

* * *

Ed is very, very still. Cameron's hand is warm around his. His fingers are drowning Ed's. Ed wants to close his eyes, sink into the sensation.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Cameron." He manages the word as a spluttered little breath. His own fingers curl then uncurl.

"God." He rolls over, letting go of Cameron's hand, burying his face in the pillow. "Oh God. Oh _God._ We-"

"Ed-"

Ed turns to stare at him. "What are we doing?" he asks, a little despairingly.

Cameron stares back at him. "I-um-I-"

Ed wants to flop back and pull the pillow over his head, but instead he just stares back at Cameron. "I-" For a moment, he feels utterly lonely, even with Cameron's hand over his own.

Then Cameron's hand squeezes. "Hey."

Ed looks up at him, ready to pull back, to hide under his eyelashes.

"It's all right."

And then Cameron hugs him tight, Ed's face pressed into his shoulders.

Ed tells himself to pull away.

He doesn't.

Instead, he takes one deep breath, then another.

"Listen." Cameron's voice is a whisper against his neck. "Remember when you became leader?"

Ed rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to tell Cameron he's not a child.

"Remember what I told you?" Cameron whispers and his hand rubs absently into Ed's back, and then Ed opens his mouth, breath stuttering, because, "I-"

_"He's meant to call you" Douglas had told him, glancing up from scribbling notes on the interviews Ed would be doing the next day, while Ed had sat on the end of his bed, hands wrapped together, bouncing up every few moments and pacing the room, because this has happened, this is happening, this is real-_

_It had felt like a strange sickness in his stomach. Like he was lurching on the edge of a cliff._

_Ed had glanced at the phone again. "I know."_

_Douglas had grinned, eyebrow arching. Ed had glanced around the room again, hand knotting into his hair, Rachel touching his arm reassuringly. Justine was somewhere, he was sure, but she was gone from his mind as he looked at the phone again._

_"He'll phone you" Douglas had said, more gently, and Ed could almost ignore the amused look crossing his face, the slight tilt of the head, that for a moment, reminded Ed so much of his brother._

Now, they watch each other, both of them remembering that phone call.

_What if-_

The question tilts in Ed's chest, as though it's trying not to fall off a cliff.

But Ed doesn't say anything. Instead, he just stays still, lets himself breathe into Cameron's shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he murmurs into Cameron's neck, a moment later.

He feels rather than sees Cameron's shrug against him. "Hoping my daughter doesn't turn into Lauren Branning, but-"

Ed frowns. "What?"

There's a moment of silence, before Cameron chuckles, the sound vibrating through both of their chests. "I always forget you were lying about watching Eastenders."

"Oh, shut _up."_

Cameron just laughs and tightens his arms around Ed then, as if worried he'll pull away.

"Are you?" Ed murmurs then, the words lost in Cameron's pyjama top.

There's a long silence, before Cameron's voice tickles his ear. "It'll be all right. I'm all right."

Ed takes a long breath. He could say something more, but instead, he just lets his eyes fall closed, and tries, for once in his life, to believe him.

* * *

David's used to waking up early now, so when he crawls into wakefulness to the greyness of early morning creeping through the curtains, he's not entirely surprised.

He lies there for a few moments, and then slowly turns round to look at Ed. Ed's curled up on his side, hand brushing David's arm, as though he's reaching out in his sleep.

David turns and props himself up on one elbow, watches the way Miliband's lips purse slightly in his sleep. Measures the length of his dark eyelashes as they flutter.

How can he have known Miliband for this long?

David suddenly can't stand to lie there a second longer. He swings his legs out of bed, spots a robe hanging on the back of the door and grabs it. A few moments later, wrapped up, he pads over to the window, parts the curtains very slightly, and peers out into the early morning, unseeing.

If he closes his eyes, he could imagine getting back into bed. He could imagine rolling over to Miliband, putting an arm round him-

It shouldn't be that easy.

He doesn't close his eyes.

God, is it always going to be like this? For the rest of their stupid, bloody, pathetic lives? Is it ever going to stop?

The thought makes David's chest clench tightly.

David doesn't know how long he stands there for. When he turns around, as though someone's called his name, it's to see Miliband, still curled up under the bedclothes, but his eyes open, watching.

For a moment, they stare at each other. Miliband's lips part, but not quite around silence.

David hears himself say, softly, the words crisping out into the cold morning air, "Do you want to go somewhere?"

* * *

Ed doesn't usually get up this early. He blinks at the grey morning air, stamps his feet slightly in the cold, pulls his winter coat more tightly around himself.

Cameron glances at him as they walk out through the gates, their shoes sinking into the soft grass, but he doesn't speak until they reach the cloak of the trees, scraggly branches extending over their heads, before David says "Florence loves it here. I think she thinks the whole place is her garden."

Ed glances at him, then away, rolling his eyes. "I-"

David waits, even as they walk into the shadow of the trees. Ed looks away from him, eyes wandering through the branches.

"What?" David asks, tugging his own coat tighter around himself.

Ed shakes his head and looks away. "Nothing."

That's when David stops, fingers fastening into Ed's sleeve, pulling him back. "Ed."

Ed stares at him. Maybe it's just the difference between the countryside and the city, but the silence around them is deafening, a freezing blanket over the world around them. It makes each long wavering breath louder, a hot mist in the cold air.

"What?" he manages, his voice just above a whisper.

David stares at him, forehead creasing, and then he looks away, jaw clenching. "You used to talk to me" is all he says, the words wrenched out, and then he lets go of Ed abruptly, as if suddenly burnt. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, lips pursing.

Ed stares at him as they walk, lips scrabbling for a denial. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing."

"It didn't matter. Forget it."

"I'm not going to forget it."

David shakes his head slightly, quickens his pace a little, but Ed easily matches him stride for stride. "I still talk to you" he manages, weakly, but the words fall flat, even to his ears.

David laughs very slightly, the sound lost in his throat. "Not the same way."

"Well-you-" and suddenly, Ed's stopping in front of him. "What do you _expect?"_ and his voice shatters the air around them, sends a few birds fluttering from trees. "You-every bloody time we-I don't know, I don't know what to bloody _think,_ and you-"

"I what?"

Ed stares at him and he shakes his head. "It is _easier_ for you" he grinds out, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets. "I know it'th not easy, but it is _easier._ Than it is for me."

Cameron stares at him, blue eyes deeper in the cold air. "Why?"

The simple question leaves Ed standing still in front of him, mouthing silently. "I-I-"

Because-

He turns on one heel and storms off through the trees, shaking his head frantically as though he can shake Cameron away.

It's a few minutes before he hears Cameron's footsteps behind him. Ed hasn't gone far and as Cameron reaches his side, he dimly reflects that Cameron could have easily caught him up long before now.

He stands still, arms folded across his chest, wondering if his last few words could possibly have sounded more stupid.

"Ed." Cameron's voice is soft, low, and Ed closes his eyes, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Can we just _stop?"_ he manages almost despairingly, his voice small now but shrill, splintering on the last word, trying to hide. "Can we jutht-jutht- _stop_ it, pretending thith ith all normal and easy and-"

"It's not." Cameron takes a step closer to him, hands out. "Ed, it's-it's not, I know, it's not, and I'm sorry, I just-"

"Well, then-" Ed's voice is tight in his throat and he turns his gaze away. "Well, then, why did you-why do you keep saying-"

"I didn't." Cameron's voice is softer now and he's standing in front of Ed, twigs cracking under his shoes. "I said....I miss. I miss talking to you. The way we....used to. The way we usually-way we usually do."

Ed stares at Cameron's shoes, feeling his heartbeat everywhere, in places he never knew it could be.

"I miss talking to you" Cameron admits simply, one hand in his pocket, one rubbing his temple, cheeks rosier than usual in the morning air, his blue eyes not wavering, but hesitant on Ed's, almost nervous.

Ed stares at him, takes a step closer. He reaches out to touch Cameron's sleeve or his hand or to push him away, Ed doesn't know.

His fingers fasten into Cameron's sleeve and drags him closer, half-pushing their mouths together in a fierce gasp, half-banging their chins and noses and heads.

Cameron's mouth is hot in the cold air and Ed's mouth is open at that, at the sheer wet, fierce, heat of Cameron's lips and mouth and tongue, and then Cameron's hands are gripping under Ed's arms and he's pushing him backwards, their feet stumbling together, until Ed's back hits a tree and the pain echoes through Ed's shoulder like a far-off memory of a song, because Cameron's kissing him back now, kissing him fiercely, deeply, and Ed's teeth graze his lip, and Cameron growls, low and deep in his throat and then his mouth's at Ed's neck-

One of Ed's legs is off the ground, half-fumbling itself around Cameron's waist and his fingers are digging into Cameron's hair, gripping hard, as though he can climb inside Cameron, climb inside him and push him away from him-

Cameron's arm is tight around Ed's waist, the bark of the tree grinding into Ed's back through his coat, and his own arms don't know where they want to go, his mouth finding Cameron's again in a long, fierce kiss, that makes Ed's thoughts reel like a punch, and then Cameron's hand is under Ed's coat, at his jumper, and as Ed braces himself against the tree, he gasps, head falling back, one of his legs nearly buckling at the shock of Cameron's fingers on his bare skin, his stomach dropping, leaving a high-pitched sound to crawl out of Ed's throat, fingers clutching Cameron's hair, digging in so hard he could almost draw blood.

* * *

Ed's skin is hot and soft and silky and David's legs almost give way when his fingers touch it, which is when he presses his face into Ed's shoulder, frantically trying to count to 10, to recite the alphabet, to focus on anything other than Miliband's bare hip under his hand, oh _God-_

_"Ah-"_ Ed lets out a needy, desperate, throaty sound, and David's so hard he can't breathe at the sound of it, and then he's kissing Ed again, scraping his knuckles on the bark and the sear of pain is like a shock, stealing David's breath, then both hands seizing Miliband's face between them and kissing him longer, deeper, teeth almost biting his lip.

_"Miliband-"_ He manages his name almost despairingly, their bodies writhing together against the trunk, trying desperately to gain some friction through the layers of clothes. _"M-Miliband-"_

Ed's hands brace themselves on David's back, their mouths together again, chins almost grinding into each other, and then Miliband's chin slides onto David's shoulder. "I-"

David just hugs him tight into his chest, as if he can crush Miliband between his ribs.

_"Miliband."_ David just groans, and then just holds him tightly, very, very tightly, for a moment, stroking his hair.

He lifts his head after a long moment. He brushes Ed's hair gently with his fingers, touches his cheek, and says quietly, "Ed, I want to be able to talk to you."

It takes Miliband a few moments for the glazed look in his eyes to fade, for him to find David's gaze. "W-what?"

David swallows. Dimly, he can feel his fingers still flexing a little against Miliband's warm skin. He pulls his hand back slowly, tugs Miliband's jumper down weakly, as though that can tidy everything else too. "I-I do." He presses their foreheads together for a moment, takes a deep breath. Then another. "I want-I like talking to you" he admits, words cracking between them. "I don't want you to-I don't want to stop doing that."

Ed stares at him, then, "God, _Cameron-"_ bursts out of his mouth and then he just presses his head into David's shoulder.

David just holds onto him, tightening his grip along with his jaw, fighting back the sudden hot moisture in his eyes as he looks away.

It's a few moments before Ed's voice crawls out, muffled into his shoulder. "Don't you mean argue?"

David feels a smile creep slowly to his own face, turns slowly to Ed's head."Either/or with us" he manages to murmur softly, letting his lips brush Ed's ear just for a moment.

Ed makes a sound that could be a laugh or a sob.

"I really hate you sometimes." His voice is a despairing little sigh into David's shoulder as his arms tighten.

David closes his eyes, unsure if he's smiling or not, knows his own arms are tightening. "I really hate you, too" he murmurs and against his shirt, he feels Miliband let out another sobbing little laugh, his heart beating against David's, buried under the layers, warm and strong.

* * *

Nancy swings herself out of bed quietly, careful not to wake the others. Bea and Liberty lie curled each side of her like question marks, Amelia on Liberty's other side, the only blonde hair on the pillow mingling with Liberty's dark, Bea's arm thrown out casually in her sleep, as though claiming them all.

Nancy pads to the bedroom window, parts the curtains slightly, and peers out at the morning, not knowing that one day she'll remember that she inherited this from her father; this desire to see the early morning when no one else can see you.

She stands there, hands parting the heavy curtains slightly for a few moments, before she lets them fall closed over the glass, glancing at the other girls. Bea, particularly, is not inclined to be gracious at being woken early, and Nancy slips out of the door.

Chequers is cold in the mornings, and Nancy hugs her arms around her pyjamas as she walks, hopping slightly at the chill of the wood under her feet. She'd go back for her slippers, but then she'll be back in the safe warmth of the four-poster bed in a few moments, huddled between the girls who might be closer to her than sisters, her heart pounding as the thought of what she's about to see will snag in her mind.

Nancy stops at one of the plate-glass windows, one of the ones on the side of the building that looks over the grounds and the parks beyond. Nancy has a dim memory of Flo loving this view, of Mum cuddling a chubby-legged baby Flo on her hip during their second summer here, pointing out of the window while pressing kisses to Flo's head as Flo giggled and gurgled in delight, clapping her hands together, Nancy in her swimming costume ready to run down to the pool, Mum's arm around her shoulders, Nancy vining herself around her legs.

Now, Nancy presses her nose to the glass, taking in the huge greyness of the sky, the way the clouds cover the countryside like a duvet. She breathes on the glass, taking in the hint of the trees in the distance, which seem to shimmer in the early morning mist, and then traces her finger over the cloud her warm child's-breath has left on the glass, slowly sketching the letters of her name.

It's through the N that she has just traced that she catches the first glimmer of movement outside. She frowns, gaze caught, and then, a second later, she makes out her father, walking along the courtyard that surrounds the house.

Nancy watches him for a second before she catches sight of another figure, moving swiftly behind him with darker hair. Mr Ed Miliband's hand catches her father's shoulder and Dad turns back to look at him. Nancy squints. She can tell Mr Ed Miliband is saying something, but she's much too far away to make out what. She stands still, eyes fixed through the glass, intuition that she's only just beginning to know holding her there, watching.

Mr Ed Miliband pushes his hand through his hair, gripping tightly. Dad's hand touches his arm, then again, squeezing it. Nancy watches the other man's hand fall from his hair-it's a myth that the affairs of adults are of no interest to children, as only children themselves realise. They're fascinated,, playing in their minds with the future grown-up versions of themselves, and they search for their own playground squabbles, alliances and feuds played out in bigger bodies, with the same sort of power that children long to wield.

Nancy watches as Dad says something to him, and then he puts his hand out and ruffles Mr Ed Miliband's hair.

Nancy frowns. The gesture wriggles into her chest, an odd confusion that, had she been a little older, she wouldn't have been just on the verge of understanding. She leans closer to the glass, nose pressing against it, breath misting her view, and she wipes it clean, impatient.

As her small hand moves aside, Nancy sees their faces again, clearer than ever. Dad's standing an inch away from Mr Ed Miliband and, as Nancy watches, his hand touches the other man's hair again, this time slower, softer, lingering there. Nancy looks at them, her heart suddenly beating hard, an odd, almost sick, lurch in her stomach, a knowledge creeping into her whole body that she's not quite old enough to touch.

Both of their heads turn a little-Nancy will never be sure who moves first or even if they both move together-but towards the house, and she steps back quietly, the scene falling out of her sight like a curtain over a play. She stands there for a second, fists almost but not quite curling in confusion, before she ventures forward to peer through the glass again, only to catch the sight of their heads retreating round the corner of the building, shoulders almost brushing, and without further ado, Nancy scampers back down the landing to her bedroom, bare feet pattering over the wooden floor.

Nancy's safely tucked up in bed a few minutes later, on her side with her nose half in Liberty's hair, when she hears the door creak very slightly, as she's expected without knowing it. She lies still, lets her eyes fall closed, her breathing steady, even with the canopy pulled closed around the bed, a hiding place from what she's seen.

Whoever it is-and in the many times Nancy will think back on it in the years stretching out ahead, she'll never be sure which-only stands there for a few moments before the door clicks softly shut behind them. Nancy waits, counting in her head, before she lets her eyes open and rolls over onto her back. She curls up under the covers, sketching out the scene through the glass slowly between her fingers, her thoughts doodling in the details, safe in the warm darkness of the four-poster bed between her friends, where she can play with the picture until her eyes close again, while the initials of her name, danced out with her finger on the mist of that window on the landing, vanish without trace, as though their moment had never existed, the same way thousands of others have before.

* * *

_Playlist_

_I Want The One I Can't Have-The Smiths -"On the day that your mentality/Tries to catch up with your biology/Come round...'Cos I want the one I can't have/And it's driving me mad/It's all over, all over, all over my face/...And if you ever need self-validation/Just meet me in the alley by the railway station/'Cos I want the one I can't have/And it's driving me mad/It's all over, all over, all over my face"-_

_Avalanches-A Fine Frenzy -"Well, don't be scared of avalanches/Tucked up in my snowy branches/I will/Oh, I will, oh, I will/Keep you safe"_

_Message In A Bottle-The Police -"I'll send an SOS to the world/I'll send an SOS to the world/I hope that someone gets my/I hope that someone gets my/I hope that someone gets my/Message in a bottle, yeah/Message in a bottle, yeah/A year has passed since I wrote my note/But I should have known this right from the start/Only hope can keep me together/Love can mend your life/Or love can break your heart"-_

_Peaches-New Heights -"Daylight's coming, the sun is blazing/New beginnings seep into you/But in the end it's distant shadows/That finally overwhelm your senses/And this time around/Is it love that you crown?/And this time around/You'll be more than who you are"_

_Settle Down-The 1975 -"But you're losing your words/We're speaking in bodies/Avoiding me and talking 'bout you/But you're losing your turn/I guess I'll never learn/'Cos I stay another hour or two/For crying out loud! Settle down!/You know I can't be found with you/We get back to my house/Your arms, my mouth/Now I just stop myself around you...But you're sure that I'd learn/I'm pushing through bodies/Avoiding me and walking around you/But you're cold and I burn/I guess I never learn/'Cos I stay another hour or two"_

_Sleepwalking-Sophomore -"I'm hurting, like turning/Over onto pins and needles/And who knew that falling hurts worse than hitting the ground?/And who knows if when I call, you'll still be around?/'Cos right now, you're sleepwalking in and out of my life/Only to call at the end of the night/I wonder if you still rest tight/Knowing that your nocturnal affection/Comes across as daylight rejection/I don't know why you never spend the night...And I'm even worse 'cos I already knew this was/Just a grenade, waiting for the pin to be pulled/And I'm waiting for a car that seems already full/And who knew, that falling hurts worse than hitting the ground/And who knows, if I call will you still be around?"-I was listening to this while planning the scene where David goes to Ed's room in the middle of the night._

_Angels-The XX -"Light reflects from your shadow/It is more than I thought could exist/You move through the room/Like breathing was easy/If someone believed me/They would be as in love with you as I am/In love with you as I am...And every day, I am learning about you/The things that no one else sees/And the end comes too soon/Like dreaming of angels...And the words unspoken/A silent devotion/I know you know what I mean/And the end is unknown, but I think I'm ready/As long as you're with me"-I was listening to this, while writing the scene where David's stroking Ed's....foot. :) _

_ Two Figures By A Fountain-Dario Marianelli (Atonement Soundtrack) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's personal trainer:https://bit.ly/2UCMUeo  
> George and Natalie Rowe:https://bit.ly/2JgnOwE  
> Ed B dressing as a Nazi:http://dailym.ai/2UGyrOt  
> Ed B saying he'd invite George round for a barbecue:https://bit.ly/2UGq45K  
> https://bzfd.it/2QOJKmM  
> More of Andrew and Dave's friendship:https://bit.ly/2vTuPAz  
> David playing tennis with Elwen at Chequers:http://dailym.ai/2WNe4SH  
> Ed's Valentine's Day mention:https://bit.ly/3dykhYx  
> Ed and Justine not drinking much:https://bit.ly/2vRpPw7  
> Justine and Venetia being mentioned in Progress 1000:https://bit.ly/2wGmTTA  
> https://bit.ly/2xt2DVs  
> Elwen being keen on cricket:https://bit.ly/3dy8Gsr  
> David not being keen on riding:https://bit.ly/3aj4BX3  
> Polly is Samantha's cousin, who had a brief relationship with actor Dominic West, who previously had a crush on Samantha:https://bit.ly/2UqaMDj  
> https://bit.ly/3ajGmIe  
> Labour's pensions tax raid:https://bit.ly/3am5DS4  
> David's comment about Florence and the garden:https://bit.ly/2UD1rXu  
> PMs being instructed for them and their families to wear designer clothing:http://dailym.ai/2UnR7E4  
> The children are wearing Boden, which is a clothes label that both the Cameron and Miliband children wore:http://dailym.ai/33PyGuL  
> https://bit.ly/2WMdvIE  
> http://dailym.ai/2xpCJCb  
> https://bit.ly/2Jg2mYN  
> They're things similar to this-Daniel's top:https://bit.ly/39iss7W  
> Sam's top:https://bit.ly/2UyRqdK  
> You can see Sam wearing the jacket here:  
> Elwen's PJs:https://bit.ly/3dIuyBA  
> Florence's dress:https://bit.ly/2JlDQVX  
> Nancy's dress:https://bit.ly/3dwt4tX  
> Elwen's shirt:https://bit.ly/3brOBSP  
> Bea's dress:https://bit.ly/2xvwzQI  
> Will's shirt:https://bit.ly/2ydtiWM  
> Liberty's dress:https://bit.ly/33NcNMS  
> You can see both Justine and Samantha wearing the scarf they share (or very similar scarves) here:https://bit.ly/3ajIMGO  
> https://bit.ly/2UEDVtl  
> Justine's top:https://bit.ly/39m4hp9  
> Samantha's top:https://bit.ly/39rCmnD  
> The "Lauren Branning" reference refers to Eastenders, a popular soap in the UK, that both David and Ed used to be fans of. At the time they would have been watching it, she was a kid who discovered her dad having an affair with his daughter-in-law on her wedding day to his son (it's that kind of show) by accidentally filming it before revealing to the whole family on Christmas Day by showing them the film. The moment is INFAMOUS in UK soap history and has become a huge online cultural reference at Christmas time (it was the focus of the 2007 Christmas episode.) You can see the clips below, because no one should be spared the sheer improbability and drama that is British soaps and the acting therein (particularly enjoy the dramatic zoom-ins at each emotional moment):  
> https://bit.ly/3bKZOOC  
> https://tinyurl.com/wzgsqgm  
> https://tinyurl.com/raq9lzf  
> https://bit.ly/2WMHnET  
> https://bit.ly/2WYOpXl  
> https://tinyurl.com/vms439t  
> https://tinyurl.com/r43g2uc  
> https://tinyurl.com/qmsajlx  
> https://tinyurl.com/ug2f4j8  
> https://tinyurl.com/qmsajlx  
> https://tinyurl.com/qmnx2ab  
> https://tinyurl.com/v5t7886  
> https://bit.ly/2WUt94C  
> https://bit.ly/2vWZ2i8  
> https://bit.ly/2wGwlGv  
> https://tinyurl.com/rbcxh9z  
> https://tinyurl.com/txeko25  
> https://tinyurl.com/umgksse  
> https://tinyurl.com/veywm3n  
> https://tinyurl.com/u3jrm7z  
> https://tinyurl.com/vwzog8t  
> https://tinyurl.com/yxyjccyg  
> https://tinyurl.com/sajvwfn  
> https://tinyurl.com/rxnco26  
> https://tinyurl.com/wn223dj  
> https://tinyurl.com/rb37zm6  
> https://tinyurl.com/uywmb2s  
> https://tinyurl.com/rhovb97  
> https://tinyurl.com/v9rkf6z  
> https://tinyurl.com/uex7okv  
> https://tinyurl.com/txcq32m  
> https://tinyurl.com/r3vkvc2  
> https://bit.ly/2UkYpZ8  
> https://bit.ly/39mytk5


	3. A Recollection Of Rivalries, Adversarial Advice And Intricacies Of Intertwining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Mars Bars shouldn't be deep-fried and koalas and rabbits cannot get married."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes for this chapter involve Boris's love life, George's brothers, George's inheritance tax announcement and Sam's family.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_I'm not a person who cooks on Christmas Day because I think the sort of responsibility is too great...I would be with my in-laws in Nottingham and my mother-in-law sort of takes care-I mean, I'll do some chopping and washing-up and everything but...I think everybody's kept away from the kitchen by my mother-in-law. -Ed Miliband, speaking in 2017_

_It was a sort of unusual upbringing. A very political upbringing and-you know, the reason David and I went into politics was because, you know, my parents are refugees-my dad left Belgium in-Jewish refugees-my dad left Belgium in 1940-you know, walked about a hundred miles to get to-to get one of the boats from Brussels, to get one of the last boats-a hundred kilometres, I think, to get one of the last boats out of Belgium with his father-didn't know sort of where they were going, really-ended up in Britain. And then my mum came after the Second World War and-you know, they're not very-my dad's no longer alive but neither of them were religious people, they were-I think the wartime experience gave them a sense of the sort of precariousness of life and the importance of-sounds a bit corny, but leaving the world a better place. Now my dad did-tried to do it through teaching and writing and being an academic-but I think that sort of-and they didn't say to us "You have to go and be involved in politics" or anything but it was just sort of-you know, the people who came through the house, the kind of ethos was of sort of politics. And I mean, I remember-you know, you just meet-I met-this amazing experience when I was twelve years old, I think I was twelve-I met this woman, Ruth First, who had been my dad's student. She was married to the head of the South African Communist Party, Joe Slovo, who later became a member of Mandela's Cabinet. And a few months after I met her in London...she was killed by a letter bomb sent by the South African secret police to Mozambique, where she was teaching. And, you know-I mean, that just has a profound experience-for you-as a kid, when you come down one morning to find your parents both in tears because this-their friend's been blown up. They couldn't get to Joe, because he was protected, but they could get to her. You know-when you have that experience, you, it kind of makes you kind of think politics really matters.-[ Ed Miliband, speaking on Matt Forde's Political Party Podcast in 2018](https://soundcloud.com/thepoliticalparty/show-57-ed-miliband-live)_

_I have just come back from South Africa-because I have just had a big birthday, sadly not forty but fifty, my family and I went to South Africa on holiday, which was brilliant to get away and to have a break....It was also incredibly moving and I'd say to people, anyone who gets a chance to go to South Africa, to go to the museums around apartheid and in Johannesburg, the two museums-there's an apartheid museum and there's also a museum called the Lilies Leaf Museum-Lilies Leaf is a place in Rivonia which led to the Rivonia Trial of Nelson Mandela and other people from the armed wing of the ANC so there are these two museums and they just give an incredibly moving account of the struggle against apartheid in South Africa-and they have special resonance for me because, as some people may know, my family were friends with two people called Ruth First and Joe Slovo. Joe Slovo was the secretary-general of the South Africa Communist Party which obviously was banned, and Ruth First was his wife and also a prominent ANC activist. One of my formative childhood moments was meeting Ruth First in 1982...look, there's lots about Ruth First and Joe Slovo at this museum, at both museums, because both of them were big, big prime movers in the struggle. Ruth First was murdered by the South African secret police, by a letter bomb sent to her office in Mozambique-a few months after I met her and this was an incredibly formative experience for me because, you know, the-the idea that politics could be a struggle of life and death...And I remember my dad always used to say-she had been my dad's student in the LSE, he was her tutor-then became a lecturer at Durham-and he said, he always said she could have taken a sort of, an easier life, which was to just stay in the UK and not engage in the struggle and she chose the sort of really difficult path to be sort of central to the struggle and paid with life. And it, you know, in a way, it put the political struggles we face in some kind of perspective and also-I just had an incredible insight into what courage looks like. And all that said, twenty-five years on from the end of apartheid, I think it is quite striking that the ANC is clearly facing massive struggles in terms of the pace of change-questions of the corruption that was, certainly under President Zuma, and it shows that political change, even when you're doing something like (fighting) apartheid, which looked like the hardest task-political change that comes after is very, very tricky and very, very tough. So it wasn't simply a busman's holiday but it was also just an incredibly inspiring experience, both for me and my family.- Ed Miliband, speaking in 2020_

_The longest time I've spent with Boris was on the bus, the VIP bus going to the Olympic opening ceremony, that got lost. This story has never been told actually because we all agreed on a vow of silence because we thought it was slightly embarrassing. I'm now telling my story-the bus got incredibly lost and it had the Head of the Metropolitan Police, the Head of the Army, Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London, me, incidentally, and various other dignitaries. I think Tessa Jowell was on the bus-she was in charge of the Olympics. And basically, it just got completely-the driver just got completely lost and basically I spent the whole time taking the piss out of Boris about Cameron and how he thought he was superior to Cameron, didn't he, and you know, he couldn't bear the fact that Cameron was Prime Minister-and he sort of took it in reasonable part. But at that point, people thought very differently about them. I think they thought about him (Boris) "OK, he's a decent human being, he doesn't quite have the same arrogance as Cameron." I think people have seen them in a really new light since then....I think we just all agreed that it wasn't a good idea for the Olympic opening ceremony if we went on and on about how the bus got lost. -Ed Miliband, speaking in 2017_

* * *

_Visitors to Edis Street (Ed's childhood home) included Joe Slovo, the head of the military wing of the African National Congress, and his wife Ruth First, the anti-apartheid activist and scholar, who had been a student of Ralph's at the LSE. In a speech at the start of his leadership campaign twenty-eight years later, Ed recalled meeting First in 1982, aged twelve, only to be told a few months later that **"she had been assassinated by the South African secret service-blown up by a letter bomb."** Her death affected him deeply. " **Some people will wonder why I got to care about politics. When something like that happens, what kid wouldn't...It teaches you at the age of twelve that some things you cannot walk away from. It teaches you that political causes matter."** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_But Ed never considered Balls to be a friend, or treated him as such. They might have gone out for a drink together after work, as colleagues, or spent their weekends side by side in Brown's flat preparing speeches or policy statements for the Chancellor till the early hours of the morning; they might even have gone out for the odd dinner with their partners, Liz Lloyd and Yvette Cooper. But they weren't friends. For a start, Ed was well aware of the fact that Balls jealously guarded his status as Brown's number two and therefore saw the younger man as a rival, as a threat. **"Ed Miliband's career from the moment he joined Gordon to the moment he emerged as more likely to win the leadership than Ed Balls has been a battle to remain relevant and stop Balls from squashing him"** says a former member of the Brown inner circle, who worked with both men._

_Then there were the two advisers' very different personalities and styles. **"I think Ed Balls is a supremely confident person; I think Ed Miliband understands doubt and so they are very different personalities"** says a former senior Treasury official who observed the two Eds closely in the late nineties and early noughties. **"Ed Balls has a different way of operating than Ed Miliband has."** Balls was confident, aggressive and confrontational; Ed was shyer, more modest and less prone to rows or fights. **"There wasn't a fear factor with Ed Miliband, as there was with Ed Balls" says** another ex-Treasury official. **"You'd often come out of a meeting with Ed Balls with the fear of God put in you."** Ed and (Douglas) Alexander could often be overheard in their shared office **"slagging off"** Balls, using colourful language. (These days, Ed will only say, diplomatically, that he and Balls had a **"remarkably good working relationship"** at the Treasury.)-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_It wasn't the disloyalty that angered him. There was no love lost between the two Eds, everyone knew that. When they'd both been working for Gordon, it had always been Ed B who had been the most senior partner. Gordon had valued Ed M. But Ed B had almost been like his surrogate son. -One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Such was Balls's seniority that, of the two Eds, he was the one referred to inside the Treasury as **"Ed",** without the qualifier of a surname. Ed Miliband was referred to as **"Ed M"** or " **Ed Mili"-** and later took to self-deprecatingly calling himself "the other Ed." (Balls, however, would occasionally and jokingly call Ed "Teddy.") By 1999, Brown had promoted Balls to "Chief Economic Adviser To The Treasury." He was no longer, informally, first among equals but formally, a cut above the rest of Brown's advisers. He also had the corner office, which was bigger and with a nicer view than the rest of the advisers' offices. Ed's office, marooned between Brown's and Balls's, became a corridor for the latter; occasionally, Ed would shut the door and force Balls to walk around. " **Of such things are splits made of"** jokes a senior Brownite._

_And splits there were in the Brown gang, despite denials from the two Eds more than a decade later. Former Treasury insiders say that Brown's team of advisers divided into two rival factions, **"the boys and the girls",** perhaps reflecting the two sides of the Chancellor's personality: the more blokey, aggressive, hot-headed types-Balls, (Charlie) Whelan, Ian Austin and Damian McBride-and the more personable, sensitive, emotional types-(Sue) Nye, (Douglas) Alexander, Spencer Livermore (who would join the Treasury in 1998) and, of course, Ed. The two groups of Brownites have also been described, more bluntly, as **"the bad guys and the good guys" (** albeit, by a self-appointed member of the **"good guys.")** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Below the surface, idealist Miliband and more pragmatic and business-friendly Balls work to conceal their disagreements. Close colleagues in the court of Gordon Brown since the 1990s, now they are neither ideological soulmates nor even friends, and Osborne and Harrison are determined to squeeze every drop of political capital from their increasingly awkward relationship.- Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_In the autumn term of 1981, Boris entered "Pop", the self-perp etuating group of the grandest Etonians and the definition of social success at the school. **"Pop was a self-selecting society of popular boys, like a private club"** explains another Scholar, who did not share such ambitions to be tribal chief. **"Teachers are not supposed to have influence on its conduct or composition and generally it is the coolest boys, the best at sport, the richest and most talented that get in. They then mark themselves apart with different, checked trousers, lavish waistcoats and the Pop swagger. I suppose it is much like the Bullingdon Club at Oxford, but with official blessing. They are supposed to administer discipline in the school, but in practice they don't."** Pop had a private room, where members could go to watch videos on a Saturday night-still a fashionable novelty in the 1980s; Pop could also stay at Tap, Eton's school bar, later than the other boys. Such privileges marked out the elite of the elite and so, in turn, Boris's arrival as a considerable force.-Just Boris: A Tale Of Blond Ambition, Sonia Purnell_

_Such a feeling of superiority was no doubt reinforced by his starring role in the Wall Game, a sport unique to Eton and one, masters claim, that brings out leadership qualities although another Old Etonian view is that it's **"just a mindless scrum, but fun because of its history and uniqueness."** The game, which sets Scholars against Oppidans in an opaque test of cunning and brute force, was the perfect exhibitionist sport for Boris and in time, he came to captain the College team. The object is to drive an under-size football over a line and then attempt to score. Winning not only requires serious muscle, but also stealth and an ability to inflict and endure pain. The Chronicle ran a spoof of the 1960s Vietnam peace chant..in celebration of the legendary aggression of A.B. Johnson (Boris) when pitted against the Oppidans. They were in no doubt, it seems, when it came to his ruthless purpose on (and off) the field. "Hey, Hey, ABJ, How many Oppidans did you kill today?"-Just Boris: A Tale Of Blond Ambition, Sonia Purnell_

_(Eric) Anderson offered his last anecdote of Boris: " **My third story is not particularly to his credit. At that time-it's now ceased, partly no doubt because of his performance-there used to be something called Shakespeare in the Cloisters, where members of College acted some scenes from Shakespeare out of doors. This had become less interesting as school drama became more developed. They were doing some scenes from Richard III, with Boris as the King. He hadn't had time to learn the lines, so had pasted them up behind various pillars. The whole performance consisted of him running from one side of the stage to the other and failing to read it properly."** **-** Boris: The Adventures Of Boris Johnson, Andrew Gimson_

_In 2003 he (Boris) bought a substantial Grade II-listed farmhouse just outside the affluent market town of Thame for £650,000. The Johnsons' occupancy started out typically chaotically: not all the kids had beds due to a miscalculation on the number needed and so spent the first few nights on mattresses on the floor. Boris had long since longed for what he called a country schloss with tennis court and swimming pool. The pleasing house he bought is Georgian in period but a rambling T-shaped farmhouse in design rather than a grand, symmetrical **"gentleman's residence." T** ucked away at the end of a lane that peters out into a muddy track, it is solemnly built of Flemish-blond red brick and backs onto an English vista of velvety green hills. An outhouse has been smartly renovated into guest accommodation and is also useful for changing for the outsize swimming pool the Johnsons have built next to it. There is also a swing in a tree, a trampoline tucked away on a side lawn, table tennis but as yet no tennis court. Inside, the style is slightly cluttered comfort, with a classical bust standing guard in one window, various Indian artifacts contributed by Marina and comfy, dark-coloured sofas encamped round an open log fire. Shelves are loaded with improving books such as Rome: The Age Of Augustus and The Origins Of Freemasonry. This is not the sort of weekend home where children become umbilically attached to a games console-or spellbound by a plasma TV-but where everyone is encouraged to exercise body and mind in equal measure. Nor is it the territory of Colefax & Fowler or indeed the minimalist brigade but something rather more down-to-earth and homely. Ceilings are low and the bedrooms romantically perched up in the old tiled roof. Friends say Marina is always having **"things done"** to the house and clearly a great deal of effort-and money-have gone into improvements...The large swimming pool, which could have easily cost £50,000, was installed before he left Parliament. " **They were all very excited when they put the pool in"** recalls journalist and friend Sarah Sands. The house has proved an excellent investment for the family and could be worth well over £1million or more today.-Just Boris: A Tale Of Blond Ambition, Sonia Purnell_

_Suspicions about another affair were first aired publicly in the Daily Mirror, but it was not until 18 July that pictures finally appeared in the Mail On Sunday of a young woman with an eight-month-old, blue-eyed, fair-haired daughter who looked uncannily like Boris. The child's mother was 36-year-old Helen Macintyre, a Belgravia-based art consultant brought in to City Hall by the Mayor without announcement as an unpaid adviser. (Indeed, her appointment, made in May 2009, led to yet more accusations of cronyism and even another inquiry into Boris's conduct.) Invitations to senior staff to visit Boris and Marina's country home near Thame for a swim and barbecue on the same day the pictures ran were hastily withdrawn. Unnamed **"friends"** of Macintyre were quoted in the press saying she was in no doubt that Boris was the father of her baby (although he had not taken a DNA test to prove it.) Her live-in boyfriend was a wealthy dark-haired Canadian financier called Pierre Rolin (who Macintyre had persuaded to donate £80,000 to Boris's so-called **"Olympian Erection"** -the 400ft-high red metal tower commissioned as a landmark sculpture of the 2012 Games.) Rolin initially believed the child was his and spent £30,000 on private care for mother and daughter, during and after the birth. But when the baby was born in November 2009 she was physically so unlike him that he took a paternity test and this proved that he could not have been the father. Shortly afterwards he split up with Macintyre, publicly blaming Boris for the breakdown of his three-year relationship. He had long since become jealous and had his suspicions after she started coming home late from meetings with the Mayor._

_Perhaps wise from the furore that followed his colourful denial of the affair with Petronella Wyatt, Boris refused to confirm or deny paternity. At work he tried to laugh it off by pointing out to staff that the baby had gingery hair, but it was clear there was little to be gained from attempting to deny a relationship. When pressed by journalists, he dodgeballed his way out of trouble, on at least one occasion displaying a flash of temper towards persistent questioners. Privately, Boris contacted newspaper editors to remind them that he had **"never set out to preach about the private lives of others"** and now had **"no intention of talking about his** own." Macintyre, meanwhile, declined to talk to the media at all. But a visit by Boris to the home she shared with Rolin in South Eaton Place (when Rolin was away on business) was caught on security camera. A close associate of Rolin's also describes feeling uncomfortable when lunching with Macintyre at Franco's restaurant in Knightsbridge during the pregnancy. She recalls that Boris would call Macintyre repeatedly during the meal, making her giggle and even blush. **"I thought then that Helen was speaking like she had a crush"** the associate says. **"I asked her who she was speaking to, and she said Boris."** Boris had first met Macintyre 15 years previously at Edinburgh University, where she enjoyed a reputation as a party girl with rich boyfriends. She has just the sort of upmarket appearance, with a good bust and legs and swishy shoulder-length hair that appeals to him. What's more, she dresses well, speaks well with a voice slightly husky from smoking, and is supremely ambitious. Her friend Annabel Rivkin describes her as **"the proverbial bloody good bloke with bosoms and a brain."** -Just Boris: A Tale Of Blond Ambition, Sonia Purnell_

_Macintyre and Boris met again at the economic forum in Davos in January 2009, when the Mayor was staying in the same Swiss-chalet style hotel Morosani Posthotel, right on the Promenade. She had long been interested in Boris, keeping a pile of books by or about him by her bed. **"She would say all the time, "Boris is so brilliant, so smart, he'll be Prime Minister one day""** says Rolin. **"She'd make me read his columns."** Macintyre had also pressed Rolin to take her with him to Davos where, he claims, she behaved oddly whenever she encountered the Mayor. **"I remember Helen running after Boris several times wanting to advise him on art, or at least that is what I thought she wanted. And then I saw him in the hotel lift"** recalls Rolin. **"He knew who I was, and he suddenly got really nervous, his eyes shifting all over the place."**_

_In early March, Macintyre told Rolin, who was by this time engrossed in a business crisis, that she was pregnant. **"My first comment was, "Are you sure?" I had been travelling quite a bit. When I did the maths, the dates seemed out by a fortnight."** He says he was persuaded the baby was his and when she was born on 14 November, paid for a private room on the VIP floor of the private Portland Hospital (where coincidentally Petronella Wyatt had had her abortion.) Two weeks after she left hospital and following several rows, Macintyre moved out of their joint home and Rolin rented a nearby flat for her and the baby. Soon afterwards, she admitted the child might not be his, and in April a paternity test proved this to be the case. To say Rolin was angry about what happened is an understatement. **"How could Boris take £80,000 off a Tory donor after sleeping with his live-in partner of three years and possibly father(ing) her child?"** he rants. **"He has no moral compass whatsoever! Despite my donation, I have not been asked to any Olympic event under Boris's instructions but he has also never returned the money."** While Rolin has been left picking up the pieces of his life, Macintyre has disappeared from public view. Like other women with whom Boris has been linked romantically, she has not spoken about him and the paternity of her daughter has never been declared. Indeed, the child's birth certificate does not name the father. Nonetheless the suspicions of infidelity raised by the press had left Marina faced with yet another intolerable situation. Shortly after the story broke she was seen without her wedding ring and once again she ordered Boris out of the marital home, this time to take up residence in a rented one-bedroom flat on the same road. Marina's housekeeper was spotted carrying clean laundry to Boris's modest two-roomed place of exile-a bolthole plagued by unreliable plumbing that on occasion made its presence felt in the apartment below. Finally, Boris had used up his nine marital lives, or so it seemed. It was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore the damage inflicted on those closest to him by such a buccaneering approach to life. His children, ranging in age from 11 to 17, could no longer be fully protected. Boris too seemed unusually stressed. Colleagues noticed that the Mayor was more than usually concerned with his finances-perhaps paying for the country home, four children in private school and now two London residences and the staff to run them was placing a strain on even **his** considerable earnings._

_But then Boris and Marina were spotted playing tennis together apparently amicably-if ultra-competitively-on a north London court. Yet another rapprochement seemed to be on the cards. It may be going slightly too far to compare the two with Bill and Hillary Clinton-although Boris has more than once poured praise on the former presidential couple-but Boris, like Bill, certainly holds his wife's respect and tenacity dear. And despite all her suffering at his hands, Marina shares Hillary's one-time tigress determination to further her husband's career. She puts up with his temper and apparent selfishness-and the peremptory way in which he sometimes addresses her in private. According to close friends, she takes the old upper-class view that the family should be put first. For her, the publicity is almost always worse than the affair itself because of the harm it might do to her children but she also simply disbelieves a lot of the worst that is said about her husband and feels anger and sympathy on his behalf. Despite all his straying, those who know her well say she still casts her life in terms of **"Boris and Marina against the rest of the world."-** Just Boris: A Tale Of Blond Ambiton, Sonia Purnell_

_From day one, the story of the Coalition was different, its structures more complex, and its tensions less straightforward. Power under New Labour was radically centralized, an aspiration described by Blair's chief of staff, Jonathan Powell, as **"Napoleonic."** The only struggle that mattered was the turf war between Number Ten and the Treasury: first between Blair and Brown, and then Brown and his Chancellor, Alistair Darling. For civil servants, one of the most unnerving transformations was the ease with which the new Prime Minister and Osborne interacted; the notion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer as part of the same Number Ten team was a radical innovation that would take some getting used to. Yet that novelty was as nothing compared to the press conference given by Cameron and Clegg in the Downing Street Rose Garden at 2.15 that afternoon. For this moment of bipartisan unity, however glutinous and transient, there was absolutely no precedent. Power is naturally pyramidal; it looks odd without an apex. But here were two party leaders-of similar background, countenance and bearing-apparently sharing power in the national interest. Unveiling the Coalition's seven-page agreement, Cameron declared that **"we are not just announcing a new Government with new ministers; we are announcing a new politics."** Their Government, he said, would be **"Liberal-Conservative."** Clegg emphasized the need for stability in times of economic uncertainty. **"This is a Government that will last...Not because it will be easy...This is a Government that will last because we are united by a common purpose."** In the question-and-answer session, Cameron said they had considered the **"confidence and supply"** option, wherein the smaller party backed the larger only on finance bills and votes of no confidence, but had found the prospect **"so uninspiring."** Clegg agreed that the Coalition was essentially what the electorate had asked for: not single-party government but stability nonetheless. By this time the duo seemed as comfortable as a music hall double act. Cameron was asked if he regretted saying that his favourite political joke was **"Nick Clegg."** The Lib Dem leader took his cue and, camping it up, said: **"I'm off...."** Cameron bit on the bait, wailing: **"Come back!"**_

_However real it was, whatever the future held, the spectacle commanded attention. In their words and body language, the two men betrayed no reluctance, no hint that they were merely settling for this governing arrangement in the absence of anything better. Instead, Cameron and Clegg gave the impression that the Coalition was the ideal outcome for the nation, all they had hoped for personally. They not only looked the part; they seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else. There could be no more striking way to mark the end of an era overshadowed by the implacable rivalry between two men....In the Cabinet Room before the Rose Garden press conference, Coulson gave his boss and the new Deputy PM a pep talk, but was struck by how comfortable they already seemed in one another's presence. According to one Cameroon: **"Nobody really had to play Cupid."** One would never have guessed that only a fortnight before they had been tearing chunks out of each other in the final television debate at the University of Birmingham. At best, this was indeed a fresh start; at worst, it was a masterclass in political choreography. Osborne was impressed by Clegg's willingness to embrace coalition so unreservedly. **"Their hands really are soaked in the blood"** he later observed.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_When Samantha was (almost) two, her sister Emily was born, but for their mother marriage to Reggie was not all plai_ _n sailing. He started having an affair with Annabel's friend Victoria and divorce followed. However, their relationship remained comparatively friendly-as did relations between Victoria and Annabel. Friends have spoken admiringly of how Annabel never held a grudge against Reggie, but then infidelity was from being something of an unknown concept to the Jones family. When Annabel's grandmother Enid, something of a snob, confided in Diana Cooper that she was upset by her husband's philandering, Diana-who had put up with a good deal of cuckolding herself-told her not to be upset. **"Darling, it's so common to mind"** said Cooper. Within a decade of the (Annabel and Reggie's) divorce, all the dramatis personae were spending Christmases together.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, James Hanning And Francis Elliott_

_So there would be the ritual like they'd gone through with Samantha and the local elections. Craig and a couple of other people from The League would sit down with him and explain how they needed more of the family. And he'd say no. Which they knew he'd say. And then they'd hand him a list of all the things they wanted from Sam and the kids. And he'd say absolutely not. Which they also knew he'd say. Then they'd say, **"Well look, what about this little thing at the bottom of the list? Can we at least try that?"** And he'd say " **OK. I'll try. I'll have a chat with Sam. But I'm telling you, she isn't going to go for it." S** ometimes she would. Sometimes she wouldn't. But they'd tried. He'd tried._

_The other thing was to mentally picture yourself in a midst of a sort of spousal arms race. So someone from The League would come to him and say, **"The word around the lobby is The Mirror's going to be doing a feature with Ed's wife. They're going to be talking her up as "Miliband's secret weapon." Just thought you ought to know."** And then someone else would come up to him and casually say, " **Have you seen Miliband's Christmas card? Got Justine and the boys on it. Looks quite nice actually."** Gradually they were ratcheting it up. And he was thinking " **OK, I know what me and Sam agreed. But if he's going to be putting the wife and kids out there, it's going to start to look quite odd if I don't do it."...**_

_The BBC were going to be doing features on each of the leaders. And they needed family access. Ed was giving them Justine and the boys. Even Nick was giving up his mother. They had to have something intimate. And so he'd begun the negotiations. With his own wife. With himself.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Half-term. A week's skiing, but old habits die hard. The second the plane's wheels hit the tarmac I switch on my phone. There's a message... **"Can you help Mum get the bags?"** I ask the boys **. "I've got to take a call."** They look at me as if to say **"What, work? On a Saturday morning? On holiday? Again?".**...As I listen and concentrate and take notes, I lean on the exit door, setting off an alarm. Seeing me edge away from the scene of the crime, the boys and their friends burst out laughing. My mind is racing. Soon I will have to tell them and their mum news that will stop those smiles....It's not good, but it could be a lot worse. We just don't know. But we're not going to let it spoil our holiday. I wave at Pippa to come over. She looks a tad irritated. She, too, thinks I've put work first. Again. I take her to one side and do what I do every day of my working life: summarize a stream of complex information on a subject I know very little about as simply as I can. But there's a crucial difference. This time it's about me. And us._

_She looks numb. She leaves much unsaid of what she must be thinking. For now the priority is to keep going. Don't scare Will and Harry. Don't spoil the holiday. Don't assume the worst....Pippa and I sit quietly holding hands. I turn the music on my iPod up loud and stare out of the window looking for snow. I text anxious colleagues at work who are waiting for news. **"Not good-BUT-and I really mean this-not yet bad."** I've lived with uncertainty before, I tell them. I'll just have to do it again. I-we-need a holiday..._

_Lift the bar, lower skis, come to a stop. I can hear Jim Naughtie filling in through my earpiece before he says, **"And joining us now is our political editor, Nick Robinson."** It is the first time-and I suspect it will be the last-I've ever broadcast from a ski slope. I couldn't resist it. The Labour and tuition fees story I've been chasing is taking yet another twist. Peter Mandelson, who was once the minister responsible for universities, has been on the programme to warn his party that universities must be fully compensated if they lose money because Labour cuts tuition fees. A couple of texts at the bottom of the chairlift revealed that there is still no agreement behind the scenes about how the policy will be funded. So here I am " **live from the Alps"** (though sensibly, Today's producer has not mentioned to Jim where I am in case he tells those listening), revealing that Labour has not yet agreed on where to find the £1.7 billion a year they need to pay for Ed's promised fee cut.-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_When Samantha was (almost) two, her sister Emily was born, but for their mother marriage to Reggie was not all plain sailing. He started having an affair with Annabel's friend Victoria and divorce followed. However, their relationship remained comparatively friendly-as did relations between Victoria and Annabel. Friends have spoken admiringly of how Annabel never held a grudge against Reggie, but then infidelity was from being something of an unknown concept to the Jones family. When Annabel's grandmother Enid, something of a snob, confided in Diana Cooper that she was upset by her husband's philandering, Diana-who had put up with a good deal of cuckolding herself-told her not to be upset. **"Darling, it's so common to mind"** said Cooper. Within a decade of the (Annabel and Reggie's) divorce, all the dramatis personae were spending Christmases together.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, James Hanning And Francis Elliott_

_The floods seem to symbolise a summer of falling polls and fading prospects. So, faced with mounting pressure from our own party and the prospect of an early election being called by a seemingly confident Brown, we start to prepare a lifesaving party conference and manifesto. Just in case....We need some nice, softer stories for this weekend's interviews. A hospital visit for the Saturday. Something strong for The Andrew Marr Show. Monday is George' s day, and he wants at least one story to brief into the morning papers as well as one for the conference hall. Tuesday is our weakest day, when things can blow off course. (In later years, it will become Boris day, we will never have a clue what he is going to say, though we are pretty sure it will overshadow everything else.) Wednesday is David's big speech. We spend the week before conference in a manic series of policy meetings and speech prep while standing by on **"election alert."** We reach Friday without Brown having called an election, to sighs of relief all around the office. We have a strong programme of policy announcements and a media plan ready to roll out. We are as ready as we are ever going to be. Most secret of all is George's plan to announce the abolition of inheritance tax for homes worth less than £1 million. We think this is the right thing to do, and it is also about time to throw a bit of red meat at our unhappy supporters who are tired of their menu of soya beans. This new policy is known only to David's and George's teams, and we trust each other completely...._

_Out of the blue came a Tory move that left Labour reeling: shadow Chancellor George Osborne's announcement on the Monday that his party planned to raise the threshold for paying inheritance tax to £1m. At a stroke, this would exempt some nine million voters from much-resented "death taxes." To pay for it, Osborne devised a new charge of a £25,000 levy on "non-doms"-wealthy foreign residents of the UK. Before the 2007 Budget, Brown's own team had debated populist alternatives to please the electorate...as well as raising the inheritance-tax threshold. Had the latter option been selected, it would have pulled the rug from under Osborne...Brown came "close" to choosing this option, according to Treasury officials, but was deterred by the £1bn cost. Moreover, Balls strongly opposed the move. It was thus doubly galling for Brown's team to watch Osborne pull off a populist coup that could have been their own. Livermore was watching coverage of Osborne's speech with Alexander at Labour headquarters in London's Victoria. **"That's it, we can't have an election"** he told Brown. Advisers were in no doubt about the significance. **"It was the turning point"** says one.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_Brown's calculation when he stoked election speculation was that it would divide the Tories and they would fall apart under pressure in Blackpool. Given the Conservatives' long history of committing suicide in public, it is easy to see why Brown gambled on the Tories imploding. Yet it turned out to be a serious miscalculation to assume that Cameron and his party would not fight back. The threat of an imminent election galvanised the Tory leadership, rallied their activists and muffled dissent. David Davis, who was Cameron's rival for the leadership two years earlier, cancelled all his appearances at fringe events to deny the media any opportunity to interpret anything he said as divisive. The centre of attention on the first day of the Tory conference was George Osborne, the Shadow Chancellor. The issue he targeted was inheritance tax. More people had been sucked into its net over the past decade, largely as a result of the boom in property prices. Even so, barely more than a twentieth of Britons were wealthy enough to be touched by inheritance tax. It had nevertheless become a hot-button issue among the middle classes, not least owing to noisy press campaigns against the **"death tax."** Osborne unveiled a crowd-pleasing promise to exempt all but millionaires from inheritance tax. He said he would finance his pledge by introducing a new levy on wealthy foreigners living in Britain-the **"non-doms."** This artfully made his promise seem a cost-free gift to British citizens at the expense of rich foreigners._

_Douglas Alexander and Spencer Livermore watched Osborne' speech on a television at Labour's headquarters in Victoria Street. **"That's it"** said Livermore. **"We can't have an election."** Alexander looked glum: **"Do you think?"** The next morning's press largely cheered Osborne for proclaiming **"Death to Death Taxes."** Deborah Mattinson was running focus groups in key southern marginals...to test voter reaction to the Tory conference. She was soon reporting a **"definite mood swing"** to the Conservatives. Osborne's inheritance tax pledge **"was like a laser to the heart of the swing voter in marginal seats."** Brown had received and rejected advice to do something about inheritance tax in his last Budget the previous March...After Osborne's speech, Brown told Darling to quickly rustle up a Labour version of an inheritance tax cut. The Chancellor was resistant. Darling protested that there was no time for the Treasury to do proper costings. Shaky maths was precisely the grounds on which Labour was attacking Osborne.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The start of the conference the next day proved his cheery pessimism correct. A faulty microphone meant that the official welcome couldn't be heard. Some representatives, dismayed by this evidence of their party's incompetence, began to barrack the stage. Gleeful journalists predicted that an epic political disaster was about to unfold. And then, suddenly, it all went right. Hague gave a brilliant, rallying speech and then, the next day, Osborne had what Ann Treneman, The Times's parliamentary sketch-writer, dubbed his **"million-pound moment."** His announcement that a Tory government would abolish inheritance tax for all homes worth less than £1 million was met with such a storm of approval in the hall that the shadow Chancellor looked stunned. Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_The week progresses as well as can be. I stand at the back of the hall with Ed to listen to George make his big announcement on inheritance tax. No one is expecting it, and there is a roar of approval from the audience. He looks so surprised and pleased with himself, we are worried he is going to burst out laughing. David joins him on the stage and pats him on the back. A gesture of pride in his friend and political ally, and also of relief. Something is going to plan. After he won the leadership, many had urged David to move George and make way for a more experienced Shadow Chancellor, someone who might compliment David's own youth. But he did not. Instead, when the pressure mounted, he chose to appoint Ken Clarke as Shadow Business Secretary to add a bit of grey hair to the economy team. Right from the start, David embraced George as his political partner and equal. The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_For most of Osborne's youth, though, 36 Porchester Terrace was home. The place eventually bustled with three more boys: Benedict George was born on 25 July 1973, Adam Peter on 25 March 1976 and Theo Grantley on 28 March 1985. Despite its spaciousness-there was a bedroom for each son and a separate playroom they all shared-the house bore the scars of the rampaging quad. Again, supplies from Osborne and Little were called upon. Felicity was " **a lovely mother"** , remembers one of Osborne's childhood friends. Peter was also popular with visiting children, **"a funny mix of bohemian and old-school aristocrat"** , who would sometimes do the school run....The Osbornes' friends were art dealers, designers and writers. When guests were entertained at Porchester Terrace, the boys mingled easily with them. It was a stimulating environment-a less political and more cultural version of the atmosphere the Miliband brothers were growing up in across town in Primrose Hill...Osborne (is) a diligent student of political history (nicknamed **"Knowledge"** by his brothers, more teasingly than admiringly.)....His brothers ribbed him, as they do to this day, but only after he foolishly let them know he found his name embarrasing.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_The Cameron children ran around the dining room with their cousins. It would be a great upheaval for them too. **"Florence keeps talking about going back to the old house"** one guest said. **"David has to explain she's never actually lived at the old house. Then she went back to the old house, saw how small her bedroom was, and said,** **"Daddy, I want you to stay on being prime minister!"** -All Out War: The Full Story Of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class, Tim Shipman_

* * *

_"I don't know when it started-this thing-but it's growing, muffling me, suffocating me like poison ivy. I grew into it. It grew into me. We blurred at the edges, became an amorphous, seeping, crawling thing." -Forbidden, Tabitha Suzuma_

_""What's it like?" she asked...."Being you."_

_It was truth-telling day. It was the sacred, truth-telling place, that's what she'd said._

_"Shitty. Scary. Hard."_

_"That's what I figured."" -Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_We kissed like this awhile, even more intensely than we had before, almost like Coley was trying to rid herself of this thing, like she could maybe just get it over and done with, forever, if she was aggressive enough, forceful enough. -The Miseducation Of Cameron Post, Emily M. Danforth_

_There's no bigger definition of being flung out of space and at the mercy of the unknown than that person who you just want to....know. -Todd Haynes, on Carol (2015)_

* * *

"Things could be going worse" Craig tells him bracingly, as David traces his Sharpie over the lines of his speech distractedly.

He manages an arch of the eyebrows and a brief smile. Because Craig's right. Things could be going a whole lot worse, almost definitely will be at some point, and David's keenly aware of it.

"How are the girls?" he asks, glancing at the door through which Graeme is bobbing in and out. He's used to the slight tautening of nerves in his chest now, enough to barely notice it.

"Oh, they're good" Craig says easily, taking a seat next to him. "They're fantastic-they've gone to Joanna's for the rest of the week though, you know, I got them for the weekend and the first few days-"

Oh God. David has to fight the urge to flinch. God, don't talk about divorced parents. Please don't.

"Plus we're waiting on Iona's secondary school placement" Craig says as an afterthought, and David grimaces because that's just another thing to dwell on.

"God. We should be getting Nancy's."

"2nd March?"

David groans. "It seemed further away. You've already been through it once-if Maya's already at Lady Margaret-"

"Don't worry." Craig cuffs his shoulder good-naturedly. "The selection paper went all right, didn't it? Nancy'll get into one of her top three, she'll be fine."

Hearing his daughter's name makes David glance down at his speech again, skipping unerringly to his son's, drawn to any hint of his children without bidding. Clare, sitting on his other side, glances up from her phone, pushing her raven hair back with one hand. "Do you want to take it out?"

It takes David a moment but he shakes his head. He doesn't look up, but he can feel Clare and Craig exchanging a look over his head.

"Elwen was fine with it, wasn't he?" Clare says next, sounding determinedly bright. "It'll just give it a bit of colour."

David doesn't answer her. Yes, Elwen is perfectly fine with it-David had asked him three times during the course of the previous evening if he was sure about being happy if he was mentioned in his father's speech, even an innocuous comment about him supporting Chelsea, and Elwen, sending the swingball flying back round to him by the pool, had blinked and said, briefly, with a shrug, "Yep."

"And you're sure you don't want me to not say your name?"

Elwen had considered for barely a second, then shrugged, sending the ball in a wild arc again. "Nope."

That had been the end of that.

Now, David leans his face on one hand, tries to push away the memory of the thumbs-up Lynton had given him over Skype this morning before he'd set out. "Brilliant. Adds a bit of family colour, you know. It's a personal touch."

David grimaces. He lets his forehead rest on his hands and tries very hard not to think about the fact that focusing on this brief snatch of words and planning for the volley of questions afterwards at least does something to take his mind off the fact he hasn't seen Ed Miliband in three days.

* * *

Ed has a cold.

That, he thinks sulkily, blowing his nose for the umpteenth time, huddled in a corner of the carriage, is Cameron's fault, too.

He's not sure precisely how, but it is. It is very definitely, one hundred percent, David Cameron's fault.

He takes a deep breath, clears his throat a couple of times, and then forces a smile back to his face as he turns back to Simon. "Th-sorry. I-th-sorry-"

"No worries." Simon's laugh is easy, like any journalist's. "You seemed far away there. Don't suppose you'd care to tell me what you were thinking about?"

_I was hoping I'd given my Tory rival a worse stinking headcold than I've got by shoving my tongue down his throat since it doesn't seem fair I should be the only one who has to deal with it._

"Nothing on the record" Ed says, with what's almost an attempt at a laugh.

There. That's something like what Cameron would have said, isn't it? Light, easy. With that bloody _laugh._

"Unless you're offering?" Simon asks, with a curve of the eyebrow, and Ed forces another laugh, trying not to imagine, even for a brief, insane instant, what Simon's reaction would be if Ed stopped laughing right now and said what he was actually thinking.

"Now, back to this-is it true, this thing with Kevin Mustafa-"

Across the carriage, Ed senses rather than sees Tom stiffen. Bob's foot brushes Tom's very slightly, but his eyes never leave them, sharper suddenly.

"Ah-" Ed glances across the corridor, searching for some hint, his entire body suddenly alert. Bob nods very slightly. Tom moves then but Bob's hand fastens tightly around his arm, under the table.

"I think this was a-fight I got into-" He chooses his words carefully. Too little, and the journalist will know he's hiding something. Too much, and he might as well loop the rope Simon's just handed him around his own neck. "At school-"

"Did you win, get the better of-was it a case of fisticuffs, were you a good fighter?"

Ed blinks. "No!" he manages to say, and it's not difficult to sound incredulous. "But I-I didn't come out _too_ badly-"

"So what was it with this fight, case of six of one, half a dozen of the other-" Simon's still smiling.

Ed manages a laugh but only just. Tom's almost coming out of his seat. Rachel's watching him closely, eyes a pair of grey bullets under her blonde fringe. "Ah. I think it was honours even, really-"

"But Mr Mustafa threw the first punch?"

"Um-" Ed glances across the aisle, to where Tom now appears to be being physically restrained by Bob.

"Well-I don't really imagine that throwing punches is the best-best way to-"

"But this was in response to you issuing a-well, a tirade of racist _abuse_ at Mr Mustafa, isn't that correct?"

There's an explosion of movement, and then Bob's scrambling up, his hand seizing Tom's sleeve. _"Tom-"_

"Shut that down" Tom snaps, eyes snapping between Ed and Simon. "Shut that question down _now."_

Bob gives Tom a none-too-subtle shove in the ribs and then tilts his head to Simon. "Have a word?" he says affably enough, and Simon follows him as slowly as possible, almost lounging out into the corridor with an amiable smile at Ed, who's too stunned to return it and isn't sure he'd be in the mood to otherwise.

"For God's _sake."_ Tom throws himself into the seat beside Ed. There's a moment of silence during which Ed stares uncomfortably out of the window, his heart beating fast.

"That one fucking article-"

Ed stares harder out of the window, eyes prickling, only to jump at a painful dig in the ribs. "What the fuck were you _thinking?"_

Ed stares out the window for a second and then something yanks his gaze round to Tom, snaps the words out like a whim, cracking down his spine. "I didn't know when I wath fifteen, I'd be being questioned on it thirty years later" he snaps out, and then he throws himself round in his seat to stare out of the window, arms folded tightly, holding himself together, even as Tom mouths silently behind him.

* * *

"Just what the _hell-"_ George demands, nearly stabbing the iPad screen in his zeal. "Is this supposed to be?"

Balls, regarding him from the comfort of his living room couch, shrugs. " _Ed Balls writes to George Osborne over HSBC-_ "

"I can read."

"Can you? It was yesterday."

"And you missed out the fact you're trying to yank Miliband's head out from the noose." George stuffs the letter back into its envelope furiously.

Balls smirks. "Probably didn't write it myself. Anyway, I wasn't the only one leaking yesterday."

"Dear to me though you are, I think your leakage is your private business."

"Yeah, well, any leakage into the headlines yesterday-"

"As if."

_""Total hypocrisy from a man who wants to be considered a potential Chancellor-""_

"Well, it's your fault if you want to exploit your window cleaner, Balls, what the hell can I do about it?"

Balls snorts. "Window cleaner. Not any bloody more, mate, I can promise you that."

"And I thought that Labour were all for whistleblowers" George muses, tossing the envelope onto the coffee table. "Plus, it was Bone who said that, not me."

"Still keeping the Awkward Squad on side?"

"To what do I owe this pleasure? Have to make it quick, I'm taking Frances and the kids out for lunch-it's her birthday, we're in Ben Giron, flying back tomorrow, and she's already annoyed at work getting in the way."

"Happy birthday to Frances. And you're the one who mentioned the bloody letter."

"I saw an opportunity to conserve energy" says George, idly, leaning back on his own couch. "You are the one who requested the pleasure of my company.

Balls snorts. "Don't flatter yourself, Gideon. I wanted to keep you updated."

"On?"

"Miliband."

George arches an eyebrow. "You're defecting?"

"You wish." Balls stretches, folding his arms underneath his head. "He wants me to meet him tonight."

George snorts. "Good luck."

"At Brewers Green. Not at his."

"I don't know if there've been any dramatic changes in the appropriate attire for a date, Balls, but if you want to get on _Queer Eye For The Straight Guy_ , you've left it a bit late. Or get me to plait your hair at a slumber party."

"I'll survive." Balls adjusts the cushion under his head. "I was wondering if you wanted me to do any probing."

George arches the eyebrow again. "I think that's.....private, isn't it?"

"Fuck you."

"Well, not on the first date, surely."

"Fuck you, Osborne. What did you get by Sunday?"

"Told you." George sighs, tilts his own head back. "They were just-very polite to each other. Miliband left soon after breakfast, though."

Balls sighs. "Christ. You don't think he'll want us to _eat_ together, do you? We haven't had dinner together in years."

"Brownites exhibiting the usual healthy family dynamics, then?"

"Fuck off."

"Dear old Pater, glowering down from the manse?"

"Fuck off, Gideon."

George smirks. "Just see what he wants to speak about. Dave might not even come up."

"Like hell he won't." Balls snorts. "He's got a way of popping up, your friend. Like an erection in a church service."

"It is truly delightful, the places your mind wanders to, Balls."

"About as often as it goes to you."

"You might want to reconsider you probing request, then." George squints at him. "Are you balancing that laptop on your _stomach?"_

Balls snorts. "Maddy bounced two feet into the air off it earlier."

* * *

Samantha claps her hands at the bottom of the slide, gives Flo a grin. "Come on."

Rex hurtles down past her, nearly crashing into Emily's arms. Sam manages to ruffle his hair, catching the small spikes the little boy had been eager to show off on his arrival on Friday, now flattened by the water.

"Dave'll be doing his speech about now, won't he?" Emily says, almost casually, dragging her hands through her thick dark hair.

Sam sighs, giving Florence a quick clap as she skitters off the end of the slide into her arms. "There you go, Flo-yeah, should be."

Emily gives her the quickest of glances over Flo's head. "Are you still sure?" is all she says, quickly, quietly, and Sam presses her nose into Flo's hair, breathing in her warm sweet scent in a quick, fierce kiss.

"It'll be better like this" Lynton had argued, words not quite matching his mouth on the Skype call the evening before. "Just work in a few more references to them, you know. Doesn't have to be anything huge."

There'd been a moment's silence, and then Lynton had said "That way, when Sam does the-it'll seem natural. A natural progression. And I thought you guys should pick the journalist, someone you both feel comfortable with, you know."

Sam had almost snorted at that, glancing at Dave from where she'd been curled up in the armchair, safely out of view of the laptop. She'd spotted the slight lift of David's cheek in a grin for her.

"Look" Lynton had said, a little abruptly, apparently taking Dave's silence for annoyance. Good.

"I know you're worried. But-honestly, they're not going to have to do anything. No one will even see their faces." Lynton's voice, which had been taking on an uncharacteristic pleading note on the last few words, now had, even less characteristically, dropped, become softer.

"It's not like-well." Lynton had cleared his throat, ostentatiously. "It's not like what Miliband's going to be doing with his. And-" A breath, then, the words rushed, almost blurring into one another "And they're not going to be, it's not going to be like it was with Kathryn and the others. It's not."

Now, Emily, perhaps taking in the way Sam holds Flo a little tighter than usual before letting her slide back into the water like a happy little minnow, says "Hey, you know-in the Easter holidays, the campaign will be pretty much underway, won't it?"

Sam, eyes falling on Nancy and Elwen at the top of the slide, each having chosen one of Perry's shoulders to squabble at the other over, nods distractedly.

"Well, we were thinking." Emily gives the kids a clap, a quick yell of "Come on!" Then, to Sam, "Tom and I are taking the boys to Ireland for a week after the Easter weekend. Why don't the kids join us, if you like? That way, you won't have to worry about them when you're campaigning. Plus, they'll be away from all the cameras and, you know, the attention and stuff."

Sam stares at her sister. Emily blinks.

"I mean-it was only a thought, I-"

He words are cut off by the sudden fierce wrap of Sam's arms around her, her cheek pressed into her sister's shoulder. Emily's arms come up to return the hug, confusion crumpling her brow, and Sam draws back, wiping her eyes.

Emily's hand touches her wrist. "Sam, what?"

"It's fine" Sam says briskly, already wiping away the streaks of mascara under her eyes. "I'm-it's fine. They'll love it. Thanks, Em."

With that, she turns back to the slide with a grin brightening her face, hands clapping, with a call of "Hurry up, before I push one of you down" bouncing off the walls of the pool, leaving her sister to stare at her for a moment longer than she strictly needs to.

* * *

David forces himself to stay very still as he opens the door.

Miliband is standing there, still clad in a suit, but with his tie draped over his arm, and his top button loose. David forces himself not to let his eyes linger on the bare skin that leaves visible.

"Miliband" he says, managing, with what he thinks is considerable self-control, to keep his eyes on Miliband's face. "You-ah-come in."

Miliband does so, slowly, eyeing David the whole time as if he's preparing himself for a punch. Only when David closes the door to the flat behind them do Miliband's shoulders relax very slightly.

"Um-would you like a drink?" David asks awkwardly, cursing his usual smoothness for typically deserting him right now, when it's most bloody _needed,_ goddamnit. Never mind negotiating with the bloody EU. Ed Miliband's a far more irritating opponent, and that's when David's _not_ debating him. Then again, it doesn't seem to work with Miliband, anyway.

"Um-" Miliband blinks, speaking the first words he's managed since he entered the flat. He's sniffling slightly and David can tell from the chapped skin under his nose that he's recovering from a cold. (That makes concern squeeze tightly in David's chest. God, he's becoming pathetic.) "Yeah, thanks, that-that would be...nithe."

His eyes flicker up and down David's body in a quick, snatched glimpse that leaves David's mouth unaccountably dry as he turns to the wine cabinet.

It's not as though he didn't know when Miliband asked if he could speak to him about something tonight what he could be asking. But each time, a part of him manages to convince himself that it's not going to happen this time. That this time will be the time it stops, and he's never sure if he's welcoming it or not.

When he turns back with two glasses of wine a moment later, it's to see Miliband standing there, nearly but not quite clasping his hands. He gives David something resembling a glower, almost defiant in his awkwardness. It makes a wave of something sweet and almost painful swell in David's chest.

"Here." He indicates the yellow couch, passing Miliband his glass, trying not to let his breath catch at the brush of their fingers together. Miliband sits down gingerly next to him, positions the glass on a coaster.

"Did you have a good day?" David manages, falling back on manners, if nothing else.

Miliband's mouth quirks very slightly. "Do you think I would tell you anything else?"

David looks at him. "What if I told you my day was terrible?" he says slowly. "What if I told you I'd just had the worst day of my life and the only person I wanted to talk to about it was you? What then?"

Miliband's eyes don't look away. Instead, they stare back into David's, for a moment, seem to deepen, darken.

"I'd know that wathn't true" he says, slowly, and David thinks he's going to look away, but he doesn't.

"Really?" is all David says, and he suddenly sounds wearier than he's felt all day, and now it's his turn to almost look away.

Miliband stares at him. "Have you?" he asks, slowly, carefully, but those brown eyes have softened very slightly.

David laughs suddenly, slightly bitterly. "Of course I haven't" he says, reaching for his glass a little too quickly. "If I had, I wouldn't tell _you_ , would I?"

Miliband almost flinches, but not quite. David looks away, shame prickling up his back, taking a sip of his wine without tasting it.

"You don't trust me" Miliband says, slowly.

David laughs. "Do _you_ trust _me?"_

Miliband laughs this time. "Why would I tell you if I did?" he murmurs, the words almost getting lost in his throat as he raises the glass to his mouth again.

David shoots him a curious look, but Miliband avoids his gaze.

"Heard you had a nice dinner with your Shadow Chancellor" he says, after a few seconds' careful silence.

"Oh." Miliband puts his glass down a little more loudly than necessary. "Right. Tho that'th it."

"It what?"

One side of Miliband's mouth twists into something resembling a smile. "Well, let'th face it, Cameron, this isn't exactly a _date_ , is it?" He sniffs as he says it. That makes something pull and melt in David's chest, even as heat rushes to his cheeks.

The fact that Miliband is blushing too is little consolation. He looks away carefully, clamping resolutely down on the sudden spike of feeling rearing in his chest.

"I-" He's just started to turn back to Miliband, almost sure he's got a handle on his emotions, when Miliband's hand slides into his hair and David's eyes open in shock as Miliband's mouth stamps into his own, lips hot and open, kissing him hard and tasting of wine.

* * *

It wasn't a dinner, for one thing. Dinner had been half a sandwich snatched earlier, in between waiting irritably for Balls to arrive at Brewers Green, snapping a little at Anna whenever she hovered too solicitously near him. After the meeting, Ed wouldn't have had much appetite anyway.

"You know we need to get on the same page on this" he'd said, trying to keep his voice level, his nose stinging, willing Balls to meet his gaze. "The Tories will be able to make minthemeat out of any divisions between uth."

Balls' lip had curled very slightly at the lisp. Ed's knuckles had whitened on the edge of the desk.

"I didn't know there was division between us" Balls had said in that light tone he'd used to use back in the Treasury, when he'd been leaning over Ed's desk, saying _Why don't you and Liz join us for dinner? Split it with me and Yvette?_ "I seem to remember a time when you favoured a graduate tax yourself."

Ed nearly grits his teeth but not quite. "That was before" he manages, struggling to keep his tone light. "When we were trying to win."

Balls shrugs. "Are we not trying to win now?"

_Shut the fuck up._

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't." Balls leans back in his seat a little. "Are you saying the Tories aren't strong enough to beat us now, so you want to go more left-wing?"

Ed's jaw clenches. "It fitth in with the theme of young people" he'd said slowly. "Authterity is targeting them more than anyone, so capping the tuition feeth would help-"

"And where's the money coming from?"

"Higher taxes-higher inheritanthe tax would-"

"Be hugely unpopular. Cameron's going to go on that, you remember what Osborne did in 2007."

"That wath different" Ed had snapped, because this time, if they could explain, if they could pre-empt what Cameron and Osborne would offer-

"Because a general rule of thumb is don't go into an election telling everyone they're going to be paying more tax."

"But-" Ed had closed his eyes in exasperation. "We're meant to be _tackling_ the inequality problem, not _increasing_ it-"

"How would a graduate tax increase it?"

"Becauthe half of the poorer ones won't be able to afford the fees-"

"They won't have to pay the fucking fees if they can never afford them." Balls had spread his hands. "God, you're making me make Cameron's arguments _for_ him, Miliband."

Ed had met his gaze then, stared at him, hard. Balls, unabashed, had stared back.

"You used to be backing a graduate tax yourself." Balls' mouth had twitched slightly. "'Course, that was when Gordon was thinking of it too."

Ed's fingers had curled under the desk, digging deeper into his leg until he'd flinched and pulled his hand back with a silent gasp. When he'd texted Cameron asking for a meeting, it had been more from instinct than he'd like to admit.

* * *

Now, Ed kisses Cameron harder, longer. The irritation that's been curling in his chest since yesterday fastens his hands into fists in the back of his shirt, has him biting at Cameron's bottom lip, relishing Cameron's gasp of surprise.

"Where'th-" Ed hates himself for asking. "Where'th-"

"At Chequers-" Cameron gasps into his neck. "I had that speech, so I-"

Ed grinds their mouths together to finish the sentence, so roughly it could almost not be called a kiss at all.

"What about-" Cameron groans into the kiss and presses his hands into Ed's cheeks as if holding his thoughts together. Ed wants to lean into the touch and rear away at once.

"Justine-"

"She thinks I'm working" Ed manages, feeling slightly sick even as a moment of recklessness seizes him. "She always thinks I'm working."

He kisses Cameron again before either of them can say anything more. They've become those people, he thinks miserably, and that makes him grind his mouth into Cameron's again.

"Is this instead of PMQs?" Cameron gasps, when they resurface, his cheeks flushed, his mouth ruby red. "Is this your-your version of your-your six questions for this w-week, Miliband?"

Ed presses their foreheads together, manages to take a deep, shaky breath. "Shouldn't I be athking you the questionth?" he manages, and then Cameron's eyes brighten and one hand slides into his hair and before Ed can speak, Cameron's mouth is on his, but softer this time, a long caress of tongues and Ed's eyes close with something like a sigh as Cameron's mouth opens in a long, wondrous kiss.

* * *

David has to struggle to collect his thoughts. He and Miliband are in the flat, alone, on a couch. They've both got wine. It's late at night.

This is.....not ideal.

(David is valiantly trying to ignore certain parts of his body which are murmuring that it is very much ideal.)

"Miliband-" he manages to murmur, grazing Miliband's earlobe with his teeth, his body traitorously revelling in the shudder of delight through Miliband's that follows. "Miliband-should-ah-"

"Don't."

"Sorry?" David pulls back with an effort, struggling to catch his breath, curling his hands into fists to stop them from roaming any further.

Miliband's eyes are blazing. David has to swallow. God. Miliband's eyes like that-huge, blazing, or huge and blazing-should be classified as some kind of lethal weapon. He should get Theresa to investigate them.

"Don't make me _think."_ Miliband's voice is a hiss. _"Please."_ The last words cracks into a plea, and then his mouth's on David's again, almost desperately.

David tries to think in between returning increasingly frantic kisses.

"I-Miliband-" His words crumble into a groan as his mouth finds the crook of Miliband's neck and it immediately becomes one of his favourite places in the whole world purely for the jolt it sends through Ed's body. "Mmm...you're...sensitive there, aren't you....Miliband..."

Ed makes something like a very sweet snarling sound which dissolves into a sudden keen as David's teeth scrape his collarbone. David smiles, especially at Ed's furious scowl when he comes up for air.

"Is this our version of PMQs?" he manages to murmur, teasingly, even as Ed drags a tissue out of his pocket and wipes his nose, and God, that should be disgusting, that should turn him right off, but Christ, it's Miliband, and that scowl and those eyes and what's fucking _happening_ to him-

Miliband turns back to him, stuffing the tissue back in his pocket, eyes widening challengingly. "I thought it was only mine?"

David doesn't get a chance to answer before Ed's mouth meets his again almost hungrily, and David thinks Miliband's just trying to shut him up at first before Miliband breaks away, barely, lips still brushing David's, and gasps into his mouth, "The Prime Minither will notithe that he can't anthwer any of my questionth, ath per."

"I don't believe the Right Honourable Gentleman-" David rakes Miliband's earlobe with his teeth. "Has asked me anything-"

"I spend my fucking _life_ athking you things." Miliband almost growls out the words and then he's dragging his fingers with his blunted nails down David's back.

"I'll rephrase for the Right Honourable Gentleman-" David can feel himself smile against Miliband's mouth. "I don't believe the Right Honourable Gentleman has asked me a question worthy of his intellect."

Miliband snarls, and then he grabs his collar- _Miliband grabs his collar-_ and almost drags him in for a fierce, bruising kiss, and David's just forgetting how to breathe when Miliband pulls back again so suddenly David almost falls forward and says, with a very odd look, "Wait, did you jutht _compliment_ me?"

David struggles, even as his cheeks warm traitorously.

"What do you think?" he asks Miliband eventually, and then Miliband stares at him for a long moment before he leans in and kisses him again, softer this time.

"Don't you have something?" David murmurs, a few kisses later, and when Miliband breaks away, looking slightly disgruntled, he says "Something to say to me?"

Miliband stares at him for too long a moment. "I-"

David waits too long, and then he says "Doesn't matter."

"I-"

"Doesn't matter. You don't have anything. That's fine." And it is. It's not like he didn't know.

Miliband is still staring at him. "Cameron-"

David kisses him, hard. He has the distinct impression that Miliband tries to say something but David wraps his arms around him, hands in his hair, kisses him deeper to smother whatever excuse he was about to make. After a moment, Miliband stops trying. David feels his eyelashes against his cheeks as his eyes flicker closed and he's kissing him back, their tongues slowly exploring now, one of David's hand in Ed's hair, the other around his back, Ed's fingers clutching into David's scalp, fingers brushing his cheek.

There's a murmur of movement and a voice and David has just started to move back from Ed, raising his finger in a shushing gesture, when the door opens and Nick Clegg is standing there.

* * *

Miriam, when she eventually answers, looks half-asleep, her long dark hair rumpled around her face. "This had better be fantastic" she warns.

Nick squints at the background, managing to make out some tiles and the shower. "Where are you?"

"In the bathroom. Miguel's in our bed, he crawled in earlier and I didn't want to get him up again."

Nick leans his head on his hands. He hadn't accounted for the time difference between here and Davos where Miriam and the boys are skiing and right now, he can't even remember if there is one. He's too caught up right now in what he just saw, tilting his head back against the headboard, thoughts still reeling vaguely with disbelief.

"Nick?" Miriam's voice is sharper now. "What is it? What's happened?"

Nick hadn't meant to walk in. Hell, he wouldn't have gone at all if he hadn't known David was expecting him. He had asked Craig several times.

"Shall I clear it with Kate?" he'd asked earlier that day on the phone. "I mean, just to make sure Dave knows."

"I'm pretty sure he does." Nick had been able to tell from the guarded tone that Craig was almost certainly sitting in a train carriage with David right at that moment. "Look, I'll clear it with Kate. You don't need to worry."

And so Nick hadn't. Not even when the police officer had keyed in the code to the Number 11 living quarters and ushered him through. After all, he'd visited the Camerons' Downing Street flat more than often enough in the early days of the Coalition.

He'd called out David's name several times in the hallway, frowning slightly when no response echoed back. David might be a lot of things, but he wasn't rude.

He'd hesitated, but eventually, slowly, he'd moved towards the living room door, standing ajar, and slowly pushed it open.

Nick didn't know what he'd expected to see, but what he hadn't expected to see was Ed Miliband.

Next to David Cameron. With their mouths almost touching.

Nick's brain had frozen. He'd stood there for a moment, staring at them stupidly, brain scrabbling for any explanation other than the one that leapt to mind.

It can only have been a few seconds but it had felt like an age, and by the time David had been leaping back from Miliband, looking up at Nick, colour flooding his face. Nick had been stepping back automatically, unsure where he was planning to go-just somewhere as far away from the two of them as possible. God knows that's what he'd have wanted if it had been the other way around.

But David had been scrambling upright, eyes already locked with Nick's, bluer than ever above his rosier-than-usual cheeks. Nick's gaze had roamed to Miliband's face in time to catch Miliband's flickering away, but not quickly enough for Nick to miss the flinch, his cheeks crimson.

"I was-the door was open." Nick had cursed himself for how stupid the words sounded. "I was-Craig said it was OK." The words sounded defensive, almost childish. They were honestly the best thing he could come up with.

He became aware that his jaw was doing something embarrassingly close to hanging open and rammed his mouth shut before he could remember that out of the three of them, he was probably the person who had the _least_ to be embarrassed about here.

"Nick." David's voice had been weak, then a stronger "Nick-"

"I can go" Nick had said, too loudly, because hearing David use that voice bothered him more than anything else that night, leaving him wanting nothing more than to get out of the room. "I can-just-come back-"

But whatever vague plans he'd had for getting out of the flat and somehow finding a way to never mention this again had come to an abrupt end when Miliband, with a sudden noise in the back of his throat, had seized his suit from the couch and, without looking at either of them, stormed past him. Nick caught a glimpse of his face as he passed him-it was ashen.

"Wait-" He'd heard his own voice at the same moment David had said _"Ed."_

Nick's head had whipped round; the sound of Ed's name in David's voice was-

Well, it was-

David's features were composed by the time they heard the door slam but Nick had seen enough, and with a further slam from another door, echoing further away through the building, Nick and David were left standing in the middle of the Camerons' living room, staring at each other.

* * *

"Ed." David tries to speak as quickly as possible, so relieved that Ed has picked up the phone that he grips the back of the armchair. "Ed. I didn't know that was going to happen. I promise."

"Go _away."_ Ed's voice is a panicked hiss, but David knows him well enough, and the sound makes his heart turn over. "Thith is bad enough without-"

"Nick won't tell anyone." David regrets the words the moment they're out of his mouth, but he's grappling for anything to calm Ed down.

There's a moment of silence, then a disbelieving spluttered sound. The noise crumples in David's chest, and he has to grip the armchair tighter to stop himself from punching the wall. "Ed, he doesn't even know-not for certain-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Cameron." David winces at the harshness of the tone, winces more at the fact he knows Ed's having to force it. "What do you fucking thinks he _thinkth_ he th-saw?"

"Ed- _Ed-"_

"We th-should never have th-started thith." Ed bites the words out too quickly in a way that tells David he's close to tears. "We should never have-"

There's a silence, then the tone. Ed's hung up on him.

David stands there for a moment, deafened by the silence, before he chucks the phone down onto the couch, barely resisting the urge to throw it across the room.

"Fuck." He slumps down on the couch, lets his head fall forward into his hands, thoughts ringing with the words he's just heard from Nick and Ed, two different conversations that have led him to exactly the same place.

* * *

Nick had stood there, in the seconds after Ed had run out of the room, staring at David. David had been avoiding his gaze, eyes roaming to the door, as though at any moment Ed might reappear.

"What was that?" His voice had been quiet.

David's eyes had closed for the briefest of seconds. "I forgot we were supposed to be meeting" he'd said slowly, without looking at Nick. "I must have done."

Nick had stared at him, refusing to be distracted. "What was that, David?"

David had stared back, then his mouth had quirked in an attempt at a smile. "What was what?"

Nick had shaken his head, suddenly feeling very, very tired. "Don't" he'd said quietly. "Don't do that, David."

He'd been seized suddenly with a memory of the Coalition negotiations, staring at David sitting in an armchair across from him, the words hanging in the air between them. _Don't do that, David._

"Do what?"

Nick had taken a step towards him, looking at him. He knows David Cameron, whether he's chosen to or not, knows the way his eyes dart, those micro-expressions that cross his face before he can decide what look he wants to give the world, knows the way he very occasionally pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Knows-or guesses-when he's lying.

"What was that, David?" he asked again quietly, not giving David any words to use to distract him.

David's gaze flickered slightly. "Nothing."

"It looked like something."

"Miliband came up for a meeting. Quick discussion on the TV debates, you know-"

"That's what _we_ were meant to be discussing" Nick pointed out, before he could remind himself not to get sucked into distractions.

David's brow furrowed. "Were we?"

"Craig told me. Through James." It might be a distraction, but it was an interesting point. "They said they'd cleared it with you."

"They didn't" David said, puzzlement creeping across his face. "Craig didn't even mention it to me."

Nick stared at him. "He said you'd be here because of the speech" he said slowly. "That Sam and the kids were at Chequers."

"He knew that." Something caught in David's face then, and then-"He _knew_ that" he said, more slowly.

Nick frowned but before David could divert him anymore, he'd said "So what was that?"

David's shoulders had squared slightly, as though bracing for a hit.

_Don't do that,_ Nick had thought, suddenly. _Don't do that. I'm not your enemy. This isn't-_

But then, it will be, in a few weeks.

"What do you think it was?" David had asked, and Nick had shaken his head, because _don't do that._

But he'd looked David in the eye, accepting the silent dare, and he'd said "It looked like you'd been kissing."

The absence of shock on David's face had told Nick all he needed to know.

He'd kept his own face clear, his voice very steady. "That's what I think you were doing, David."

David's face is very carefully nonchalant. "I suppose" he'd said slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving Nick's, "that's just what you'll have to think then."

Nick had stared at him, questions fighting each other, scrabbling to get out of his mouth first.

_What were you thinking? When did this start? What about Samantha? Justine? What about your kids? Who kissed who? Do the two of you actually like each other now? Is this just some twisted power thing? What were the two of you_ _fucking_ _thinking?_

"But" David had said very calmly, eyes still not moving from Nick's face. "Since all you can do is think it, it probably wouldn't be the wisest course of action to go repeating it."

Nick had searched the words for a threat, but hadn't been able to detect one. David's gaze had rested there, steady on his face.

With an election in three months..

But, searching David's face, he didn't find any hint of _that_ fact either.

"That-" he'd said very slowly, and wondering for a bizarre second if he'd regret this later-"Wouldn't be a preferred course of action."

David had nodded. Just nodded. But Nick had caught the ghost across his face, the way he always does, the momentary leap of relief.

He'd thought perhaps it wasn't entirely for David himself.

* * *

"What?" Emily rolls over, pushing her hair out of her eyes, reaching down to pat at the duvet, until her gaze blearily focuses on Sam. "Sorry. Thought you were Rex. He's going through a phase of creeping in."

"El was the same. Maybe it's genetic." Sam crawls under the duvet next to her sister, wraps her arms around her knees. Emily props herself up on one elbow, pulling the pillows behind them both for them to huddle against, the way they did so many times as children, pulling the duvet over their heads to form a cave lit by torchlight and giggles.

"Yeah, maybe. In that case, are any of your kids obsessed with Eastenders because maybe I can blame them, Perry's got way too caught up in all this _Who Killed Lucy Bloody Beale?_ stuff, he was even talking about getting a bloody T-shirt. Mind you, Tom's not much better-" Emily yawns, shivering slightly, and pulls the duvet up further. "He could just paint the bloody answer on after tomorrow-"

She trails off, her eyes taking in her sister's face through the darkness.

"What is it?" she says, wriggling closer, fingers intertwining with her sister's. "What's wrong?"

Sam says it without thinking, straight out, like it's anything else in the world. "Dave's in love with someone."

* * *

Nick stares at his wife, waiting for her reaction. Miriam, now having slid down against the glass shower door, is pursing her lips slightly, her brow furrowed, her dark hair falling over her knees.

"I don't know what to do, Miri" he says, almost plaintively.

Miriam stares back at him. She looks substantially less shocked than Nick feels. But then Miriam's European; not that that means anything in itself, but on the continent, Nick's met some people whose partners know all about their dalliances, who would almost regard it as ridiculous not to indulge in them from time to time.

"Did he actually say it?" Miriam says slowly, touching her fingers to her mouth almost unconsciously. "Did he actually-confirm it directly, you know-"

Nick pushes his face into his hands. "No" he admits, after scrutinising his memory. "Not out loud."

Miriam's silent for a moment. "If he didn't say it-" she says slowly. "Then you can't-"

"I know."

"Do you want to?" Miriam looks him in the eye.

It takes him a moment to answer. "No" he says, slowly. "Not like that. I'm not going to-" His fingers twitch, longing to be wrapped around a cigarette. "Use this. Not-not like that. I just-" His fingers curl into something like a fist against the side of his head. "I just-"

He's silent, and then the words spill out slowly. "I-want to understand-why. What. I mean-this is-"

He looks away, wonders if it's stupid to say it, after all of this. He can remember David's gaze, flickering to his with a grin over their wooden podiums, the clicking of cameras, the pollen of the rose garden settling in the air around them, their eyes meeting.

"I want-to know. Why" he says slowly. "I want to know.....that it's all right. For them. For them to-"

Miriam's watching him, head tilted slightly to the side, eyes softened.

"You're good" she says, her voice quiet. "You're good, Nicky."

Nick doesn't say anything. Just, with a slight quirk of a smile, lets his hand brush the side of the phone, as though hers' is only inches away from his, as though they could reach out and touch.

* * *

Emily stares at her for a moment through the darkness.

Then she laughs, suddenly and loudly, almost a bark or a snap, which dies away as suddenly as it sounded. She stares at Samantha, an odd half-smile still playing at her mouth. "W-what?"

Samantha keeps her voice carefully low and steady. "Dave's in love with someone. As well as me."

Emily stares at her. "What?" Then her hand snatches at her mouth. "Oh my-wait, what? _What?"_

Samantha plays with her sister's hair, keeps their gazes level. "David's in love with someone else. As well as me."

Emily gives another wild, snapped-out little laugh, almost as if she doesn't notice it. Then the sound falls away and she's suddenly staring at Samantha, half-sitting up. "What-you mean-he's-Dave's had an _affair?"_

"No." Samantha says it immediately, her hand covering Emily's. "No. No, he's not having an affair."

Emily blinks. "So-what? Wait, _what?_ What-what do you-did he-did he _tell_ you, I don't under-"

"No." Samantha chooses her words carefully, picking her way through what lies ahead. "No. He doesn't know he is. That he loves them."

Emily blinks. "What-wait, what- _what?_ _What?"_ Her arms are around Samantha's shoulders. "What-it-you-you just _suspect_ that-you-wait, what, what's going _on_ , Sam?"

Samantha takes a deep breath and looks up at her. "I said it was all right."

Emily's head jerks slightly. "You-you- _what?_ You-what-you-you mean-you-you-this is an-"

"No. No, I-" Samantha leans her head on her hand for a moment. Then, "I said-I told him I knew. I told him I knew. Before he knew. What would happen."

Emily stares at her. "What-and he-"

"Not until I said he could." Samantha's surprised at how steady her own voice is. "Not until-I don't think he'd wanted to believe it, to be honest."

Emily shakes her head. "This is-I mean, Jesus, Sam, this is just-"

She kicks the bedclothes back, then yanks them up again, her head shaking slightly, as though struggling to hold all of the new information at once.

Watching her, Samantha's reminded of the morning after Emily's return from Marlborough, the way she'd sat curled up in the bedclothes, arms wrapped around her knees, as Sam had stared at her, gathering her own hair up in her hands, in anticipation of the inquisition waiting downstairs as soon as their parents were awake, trying to fumble Emily's sleep-dragged answers straight in her own head. _Whose was it? How long had you guys been smoking the stuff? Did you sell any of it? Who was selling it? Who bought it? What do you think the others will tell them?_

Now Emily turns to her suddenly, her eyes sharp. "The kids don't know?"

"No. They don't need to."

Emily's eyes flash, steely blue. "You mean, you're-you're not leaving-splitting up, you're, you're not-"

Sam shakes her head. "It's all right."

"What do you mean, it's all right?"

"I mean-" Samantha pulls her knees tighter in, hesitating, but the words come of their own accord-slowly, halting, but clear. "I mean. I said it was OK. I was the one who told him. That he loved them. But that he loves me."

"I can't-I can't get my head round this." Emily's shaking it, as if to illustrate this point. "I mean, I can, but, but-" Her gaze snaps up to Samantha's, suddenly alight with bemusement, her fingers open to take Sam's between them. "How-why did you-"

Samantha knows she could tell Emily that things like this shock both of them-anyone from their type of background-less than they ought to for some people, that they could look at their own parents for an example-but what she says, eventually, is "Because-Dave doesn't want it to be true. And if I hadn't told him, he'd never have let it happen."

Emily takes in a deep breath, as if about to say something, but when Sam speaks again, she stays silent.

"And-the thing is-it makes him happy-and I think that's what he hates most. And he-or maybe he hates the fact he hates it. I don't know." Sam shakes her head. "But-it would be-in some ways, it would be easier for him to stop, I think. But-" She hesitates, not because she's unsure of her next words, but because she isn't. "It wouldn't be.....better. For them."

There's a long silence. Sam can still hear her last few words echoing in the darkness of the room. Emily's staring at the bedclothes, her lips moving silently, as though questions are fighting to climb out of her mouth at the same time.

Eventually, she looks up at Sam, dark hair falling in waves around her face and asks, more softly than Sam would have expected her to, "Who are they?"

* * *

Ed lets his head rest on his hands for a moment. It's the way he's got through the whole day-breathing, living in increments.

After this conversation, he won't have to think for five minutes. After he writes this paragraph, he won't have to think for two minutes. Once he amends this sub-section of policy, he can stop and think for a few minutes.

Except every time Ed tells himself he's allowed to think, all he can do is sit there and stare blankly ahead.

Maybe it's not not thinking that he's looking forward to. Maybe he's thinking all the bloody time and maybe he just wants to think only of what he's supposed to be thinking of-

"So-" Justine's sitting next to him on the couch, but with far enough between them for Ed to breathe. If Justine tries to touch him now, even wriggles closer, he feels as though he'll scream. Or burst. Or that all the sharp, stabbing thoughts in his head will push inwards at once.

"They'll have to film here-" Justine's moving carefully, tucking her hair behind her eyes, in a way that seems self-conscious even without cameras.

"Yeah" Ed says, when, after several long moments of staring into space, he becomes aware that the onus is on him to reply. "I mean, we could film here, in the day, but-Tom said they want some of us with the kids in the park-"

"Which one?"

Ed shifts uncomfortably. "Probably the Heath" he says slowly.

"Hampstead Heath?"

"It's where we usually go."

Justine is silent and then, suddenly, "Yes, but-"

Ed looks at her and she looks away before he meets her gaze.

Cameron never does that, Ed thinks suddenly, sharply, like a slice of a knife. Cameron meets his gaze head-on. Like a grab or a punch or a kiss.

Ed doesn't know if it's better or worse that his thoughts don't recoil from the last image.

Justine doesn't say anything for a moment and Ed doesn't want her to, but then she says "But-didn't Tom say-it might be to-to go somewhere less-"

Ed hates each word, clunking in the air between them.

"Yeah" he snaps too quickly. "Yeah, he-he did."

He moves quickly, before he can think about yesterday, and shuffles some papers, stares at the TV screen unseeingly, willing himself to feel preoccupied by the dialogue. There's a silence, as Ed watches David Tennant's mouth moving around words he can't hear, the middle-class leftishness of it all suddenly grating in his chest.

This is one of the programmes they're meant to talk about as well, he remembers suddenly. _Broadchurch._ He pictures the slight curl of Cameron's lip and is suddenly seized with a violent desire to throw something at the TV screen.

"So we'll take the kids to the park" Justine says, with a needling tilt in her voice that suggests she's waiting to be told this is all right, though Ed won't realise until later he knows she already knows the answer.

"For the filming" he says, and something crawls uncomfortably in his chest at the words.

Justine touches his hand, then. Ed fights the urge that jolts, lightning-bright, down his arm to pull back. Justine's hand lies there on top of his own, like a creature unsure whether it's found a comfortable spot or not.

"We can explain it to them." She does what might be a smile, but somehow her face falls into shadow at the wrong moment, and Ed misses it. "We can make them happy with it."

The words jolt in the air. Ed squints at her, unsure what to do with the odd urge to recoil yanking in his chest.

"Make them-" he says slowly, and then he looks away before he can finish the sentence, unsure if Justine's hand almost tries to grip his own half a second before he pulls it away a little too fast.

* * *

Daniel sits on the stairs, chewing Stefan Rabbit's ear. He's heard the phone ring two times, and Mummy and Daddy talking through the door. Daniel lays his head on his knees. Zia put him to bed earlier and Daniel might have been asleep, but now he's awake again and he's got out of bed and walked down the stairs. He's called Daddy's name a couple of times to see if Daddy can hear him, but Daddy doesn't, usually.

Now, Daniel slides off the bottom stair and takes one step after another towards the door and stands there, chewing one of Stefan Rabbit's ears, listening.

"-anything you want them to say?"

There's a pause, then Daddy's voice. "I don't know." There's another pause, then "I don't know. We could talk to them about it."

"It's just that-if we have something to work from, then-I mean, I don't mean like a _script-"_

The words wash over Daniel's head. He tilts Stefan Rabbit around and nods his head back at himself. "We're like Captain Barnacles" he says quietly, and Stefan Rabbit nods back at him, very firmly. "We've got to _listen."_

Daniel touches the wood of the door. He wants to go and ask Zia to take him back to bed, but when Zia's downstairs at night, Daniel and Sam aren't meant to go and bother her. But Daniel knows Daddy can't hear him.

"Who was that?"

"Rachel. Asking about some-we're going to Lincoln tomorrow, she's just finalising train times-" More of the words too big to cram into Daniel's head, but he thinks of _train._ Zia is going to take them on a train to go and see Grandma and Grandad tomorrow, in Nottingham, which is where they live and is very, very far away. Daniel doesn't like Grandma and Grandad's very much though Grandma can give them hugs, which are nice and soft and warm, and she doesn't like them in the kitchen when she's cooking, but she always gives them Dairy Milks. Mummy doesn't like to give them chocolate-one time, she gave them something that she said was cake, but it was all hard and crumbly in Daniel's mouth and it was full of nasty, brown, hard things Mummy called _dates._

"But then we can tell Tom-" Daniel presses his ear against the wood. He hasn't seen Daddy since Zia was helping him put his sweater on on Monday and Daddy was going out of the front door to go to work. Daniel had been half-inside his sweater and he'sd said "Daddy-", tried to wriggle away from Zia, because he wanted to show Daddy the flag that Jenn gave him on Friday, which she said was for a country called Portugal. But Daddy had just sort of waved at him, picking up his big case, and he'd said "See you-see you later, th-sweetie", even though he'd already been closing the door behind him.

"So when are we going to-I mean, they're going to my parents' this weekend, I mean, we don't have to tell them-they're a bit young, we can just-"

"Tell them-"

"Tell them it's for the red team." Mummy's voice sounds like it's trying to lift itself up. It often sounds like that when Mummy's trying to smile, but her mouth looks like it's forgetting to turn up at the corners.

"Yeah-"

Daddy's in charge of the red team, but Daniel doesn't know what they do, really. Mummy and Daddy say they help lots of people, but Daddy's always with the red team and not here. Daniel wishes the red team was a person, so he could kick their knee.

Daniel pushes at the door crossly. It moves slightly.

"Yeah, they'll-they'll be all right, they can just-take their scooters-"

Daniel pushes the door harder. It moves into the room slowly, and Daniel pulls Stefan Rabbit under his chin.

"What's-"

Daniel pushes the door again. This time, it moves past the armchair and Daddy turns round to look at him.

"I woke up" Daniel announces, squeezing Stefan Rabbit tight.

"Oh-er-" Daddy looks at Mummy, then back at Daniel. Daniel tries to look at him, but Daddy's eyes keep moving away, like someone else is talking. "I thought-didn't Zia-"

"Didn't-yeah, erm-"

"I want Daddy." Daniel goes to walk round the armchair to where Daddy's sitting, with lots of papers spreading around his feet. He's putting his arms out to climb up, with his feet sliding on the papers, when Daddy holds out his arms suddenly, as though Daniel's hands are muddy or covered in Play-Dough, and his hand touches Daniel's shoulder but keeps pushing him back.

"Right-I'll-" Mummy's hands tap Daniel's shoulders lightly, but she lets go almost straight away. "I'll-you come on, mister-"

"No, I want Daddy." Daniel digs his toes into the papers, and Daddy makes a low noise in the back of his throat. "Daniel-"

"No, no, Daddy's very busy, Daddy's, Daddy's got to get on with work, hasn't he-" Mummy often asks questions, but then she doesn't wait for Daniel to answer them.

"I want Daddy-" Mummy's hands are on Daniel's shoulders, but Daniel twists away from her. "No, want Daddy-"

"Ah, but Daddy's-"

"No, Daniel, I've, I've got to-" Daddy's still got hold of papers but he's looking at Daniel like Daniel's something scary, that might reach out any minute and bite him.

Daddy's phone buzzes and Daddy grabs it too quickly. "Ok, Daniel, _Daniel_ -Daddy-I've got to answer the phone now-"

"Come on, mister-" Mummy's hand touches Daniel's shoulder like it doesn't know whether it wants to be there or not, but Daddy's already looking away from him, holding the phone to his ear. "Hi-Tom-" Daddy's not looking at him.

"Here, mister-" Mummy's arms wrap around him but it feels strange and loose and not right, and Daddy's not looking at him.

"Yeah-yeah, let me jutht- _ow!"_

Daniel crumples the paper he's just snatched between his hands, squeezing it, even though Mummy tugs it away. "Dan _-Daniel-"_

Daniel shakes Mummy's hands off and throws the ball of paper as hard as he can towards the TV where it bounces off the screen.

"You're always on the phone!" His voice is hurting in his throat, and Daniel smacks Mummy's hand hard to make it go away, and hits the door as hard as he can as he runs out, even when it makes his hand hurt, and he runs upstairs and puts himself to bed all on his own.

* * *

The drive up to Scotland is long. David's resting his head against the window. He stares out at the motorway and tries not to let his eyes roam to his phone.

He's sent Miliband 6 text messages since he saw him run out of the flat on Wednesday night. He's received precisely 0 in reply and has, several times, considered throwing the phone against the wall.

David doesn't do that, because that would be insane.

Resting his head on the glass, he shoves his phone into his pocket. He hasn't seen Miliband since that moment and that means that every image of him is accompanied with an immediate bombardment of sense memory-Miliband's mouth open and panting against his, his breath hot and rapid against David's chin, his nails, ragged from chewing, when David had looked down at their fingers wrapped together, the way Miliband's eyelashes fluttered whenever they broke apart, catching David's gaze before he could remember to look away. David hates PMQs, but he'd take a session of that right now. At least then, he could get a look at Miliband's face across the dispatch box, try and make something out in his brief flickers of expression. Nick often says Miliband's hard to read, but David's never found that, somehow.

Ironically, now in a week without PMQs, David feels oddly restless, starved of his usual contact, as though he hasn't eaten enough or slept enough. His hands are opening and closing over and over again, as though they could find Miliband's.

He hadn't arrived at Chequers until late the night before and everyone had already been asleep. When he'd crawled into bed next to Sam, though, she'd rolled over and taken his hand. "Are you all right?"

He'd phoned Sam on Wednesday night, his words clipped, short, to fasten back the tide of panic he could feel rising in his throat. No, he didn't say anything. I know he knows, Sam. I know.

"I don't know" he'd admitted slowly, telling himself his eyes weren't wet as he stared up at the canopy of the four-poster bed.

"Did you talk to Nick?" Sam had wriggled over, resting her head on his chest.

David had groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "No. If I called him, wanting to talk about-God, he'd know for certain."

Sam reached over to stroke his hair. "I thought you said he knew?"

David had groaned, rolled over to bury his face in his hands. "I don't know-well, I do. He fucking knows. I just can't-tell him. For certain."

Sam had curled her arms around her knees. "You don't think he's actually going to suspect it if you just don't ever mention it again?" she'd said, not bothering to hide the scepticism in her tone.

David had lifted his head. "No. To be honest, I was thinking-"

He'd taken a deep breath, looked Sam straight in the eye. "If it doesn't seem like a big deal to me, it's less likely to seem like something he can use for leverage."

Samantha's face hadn't changed at all, but somehow David had seen her flinch. Maybe in her eyes.

"That's pretty ugly" she'd said softly, the words almost gentle between them.

"Yeah" David had said simply, trying to ignore the slight thickening in his throat at the words. "Yeah. That's what it has to be."

Sam had stared at him, and then said quietly, as though in response, "I told Emily."

It had taken a moment for the words to sink in. David had blinked, fastened his fingers in the bedclothes. "You-what?" The words had carved disbelievingly out of his mouth in the darkness. "What-you-you-you- _what?"_

Sam had shaken her head. "No, I didn't tell her who-or what-or even that-anything had happened." She'd looked straight at him. "But I told her you had feelings for someone."

David had stared at her. His whole body had seemed to reel, as though physically rearing back from the words.

"Well, thanks a lot." The words had almost shattered out of his mouth. "Thanks a fucking lot, Sam. Thanks for telling me-did you even-I mean, did you even fucking _think_ about it before you-"

"Yes, I thought about it." Sam's voice had been so quiet that David had fallen silent. "Yes, I thought about it, and I thought about it, and I decided that yeah, I get to-just, out of all the hundreds of people in the world who it would be a complete _disaster_ to find out about this-I decided that yeah, I can talk about it to one of the only people in the world who I know can be counted on to-" Her hand had flown down, as though she was about to hit the blanket but stopped herself at the last second. "To not _rip our fucking lives apart-"_ Her hand had gripped the bedclothes hard. "Yeah. I did that. I did that. For me. For _me._ Because I'm the-the _one person_ who has to hear this, and can't-have anyone to-" Her hand had come down again, but softly, fingers curling into the blankets as though they could rip through them, and then she'd torn out, "I don't have a _me,_ OK?"

David had stared at her. "You-" He'd looked away, then back. "Sam-" He'd reached forward, then back.

"I'm not-" Sam had lifted her hand then, looked away, then back. "I'm not _blaming_ you, Dave, I'm just-I need a-I need someone-I needed someone who was worried about _me_. Not just me. Not _just_ me. But _more_ me. Because you already have that and I-I think I want that. I think I _deserve_ that." She'd looked up at him, her eyes wet, but her voice quite steady. "And is that-I don't think that's being _selfish_ , Dave. Or-or is it, maybe it is, but I don't, I don't know, because there's-there's nothing _to_ know with this-" She'd laughed slightly then, the sound wet, broken. "That's the thing, you see, there's nothing to _know_ with this, but it doesn't-it doesn't _feel_ it."

She'd looked at him then, her eyes wet and glittering. "It really doesn't _feel_ it, Dave."

David's mouth had opened in the silence that followed. His eyes had been stinging, his throat aching with words, heartbeat heavy in the darkness. "Sam-"

"Don't" she'd said, so quietly that it had silenced him. "Don't say sorry. Please don't say sorry."

"Dave?"

David turns back from the window, wiping at his eyes hastily. "Sorry, yeah?"

Craig nudges him too hard in the ribs but David takes the jolt of pain gratefully. It sharpens his gaze, makes him look at Craig a second longer than usual, remembering Nick's words last night. "Look at this. Daily Mail this morning."

David, faking a stretch to excuse the rubbing of the eyes, reaches for the phone too quickly, focusing on the screen almost without seeing it. After a long moment, the words come into focus and he begins to read, Nick's and Sam's words echoing in his head, managing a smile that aches.

* * *

_"Fuck."_ Rachel rolls up the paper without further ado, stands up and hits Stewart over the head with it.

_"Ow!"_ Stewart cringes away from her, hands covering his head protectively. "What the _hell_ was that for?"

"Oh, shut up, we all know it was you."

Spencer glances up, mouth dropping open. "Do we?"

"No, it wasn't!"

"Oh, cut the crap, Stewart, you're the only one who hasn't got a bloody adjective slapped across your face under the headline!"

Stewart glances at the paper with renewed interest. "Oh, did I not get one?"

Spencer half-crumples the paper in one hand, jaw dropping. "You traitorous little _shit."_

"It _wasn't fucking me!"_

The compartment door slides open and Anna half-stomps, half-stumbles inside. "What the _fuck_ is this?"

Rachel glances at the article again. "Oh, and we've got a David Kelly reference-oh, well done, Stewart, nice one, really, I hope the one pity wank your pathetic little ego got was worth the fucking _smash_ the campaign just took-"

Anna whirls round, eyes bulging. "It was _him?"_

"Oh, shut up, Calamity."

There's a flurry of movement as Anna half-dives across the table towards him-Rachel, reluctantly, has to fasten her hand into her sleeve to hold her back.

"For fuck's _sake."_ Stewart has to half-scramble onto the seat away from her. "It wasn't _me._ Look, they _mention_ me, look, look-"

Rachel grabs the paper from him, eyes falling on the sub-heading. _"The Right-Hand Man-"_

"It's only his right hand he'll ever need" mutters Anna.

"See?" Stewart throws himself down into a seat. "They said something about me too."

_"Tubby strawberry-blonde-"_

_"What?"_ Stewart rears up out of the seat, as Spencer claps his hands with a braying laugh, apparently having forgotten the outrage of a moment before.

"It's factually correct" Rachel takes a vicious stab of pleasure in telling him, and watching Stewart's cheeks flush.

_"Mr Tantrum-"_ Anna glances at Spencer. "That's you."

Spencer's laughter dies very abruptly.

"Oh, and-" Anna claps her hands with a gleeful sound. _"Yes,_ Marc got a mention! _"Intellectual snob!""_

"I refer you to my previous comment" Rachel mutters acerbically, ignoring Spencer, who has grabbed for the paper again, face scarlet.

"Mr Tantrum? _Mr Fucking Tantrum?"_

"Can't think why" Anna tells him, looking entirely too self-satisfied for her own good. Rachel glances at her and then, with perhaps more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary, glances down at the paper and reads, _"Anna was the fixer who never fixed it."_

Anna's smug smile slithers off her face. She glares at Rachel, who shrugs, widening her eyes innocently. "An insider says, apparently."

"Fuck this." Anna's arms lock across her chest, her jaw setting. "Who the hell did this?"

" _Mr Fucking Tantrum-"_

"They've brought up _The Sun_ , Hillsborough-the-they've _really_ gone for Torsten-then again, that's not hard-"

"They've done the bloody grocery shop thing again." Stewart rests his head in his hands. "It was _one fucking line."_

"Cameron wouldn't be-"

"Yeah, well, no one expects Cameron to be normal." Rachel bites out the words with a little more bitterness than she'd meant. "They expect Ed to at least _try_ to be."

_And he can't,_ is what hovers unspoken in the silence that follows.

Rachel becomes aware that she's breathing as though she's run a marathon. Nobody looks at each other.

"What does it say about you?" Anna says, breaking the silence.

Rachel blinks. "What?"

"You. What does it say about you?"

"Oh." Rachel glances down at the paper. "Something about me walking out of Prada and not knowing what Primark is" she mutters, sinking down into her seat, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Which'll go down fantastically with every Labour voter, I'm sure."

There's another short silence before Anna says, too hopefully, "But it's only the _Mail_ , isn't it? So it's not really-"

"Jesus, Anna "Rachel says quietly, with considerably less malice than she might have done. "You just don't fucking get it, do you?"

She opens her eyes briefly to glare at Stewart, who holds up his hands. "And don't go thinking of starting some bloody campaign against the press or CEOs or whatever like the one against bloody Boots. Also pointed out in that fucking article."

Spencer's forehead furrows. "That _was_ quite shit."

"Hey, look, Tim's in there-" Rachel falls back into her seat as Anna seizes the paper. "Oh my God, the monk!"

"Wait, what?" Stewart dives across to see. "They know about the-"

Spencer cackles, rather too hard for someone who's just discovered the entire nation is waking up to discover that his nickname is in fact Mr Tantrum.

"Seriously, who the hell has given them all this?" Anna jabs Rachel in the shoulder, hard. "Was it you?"

Rachel doesn't even bother to open her eyes. "Yes, Anna. I decided to drag my parents through the whole champagne socialist label again just for the pleasure of seeing you get _Calamity Anna_ slapped across your face in a headline."

"I still reckon it might be Stewart" Spencer muses.

"Why would I call _myself_ a tubby strawberry-blonde?" Stewart sits bolt upright with indignation.

"Well, it's obviously not Tom" Spencer mutters. "If it is, he's managed to call himself a cokehead and a war criminal within about three sentences."

"That's a record."

"Maybe it was one of Balls' lot" Stewart suggests.

"He does crop up a lot in this-all the stuff about Torsten-"

"Where _is_ Torsten?" Anna's voice drops a little, conspiratorially, as though he might be hiding under the table. "Is he in with Ed?"

"Yeah, and Bob. Probably crying."

"Could be Bob" Anna muses, making Rachel roll her eyes. "He's basically the only one who comes out of this well."

"Yeah, Anna, it's Bob" Spencer mutters. "Bob, who's spent the last four years trying to get Ed into power, has done a heel-face turn and decided to defect to the Tories by calling Torsten a gaffe-prone prat in the Daily Mail."

"What did they call Torsten-"

" _He never tires of telling us how ferociously clever he is-_ "

"The factual correctness is actually pretty impressive" Rachel muses, peering at the others through her eyelashes.

"I still reckon it could be you" Spencer mutters, staring at Stewart.

"I repeat-why in hell-"

"Yeah, but they also include the phrase _"formidably intelligent""_ Spencer says, indicating the page. "And you see, that's either got to be someone who's head's so far up your arse their tongue's on your prostate, or an idiot, or you."

"None are mutually exclusive" Rachel chips in.

"Plus, _tubby strawberry-blonde_ sounds better than _fat ginger_ " says Anna brightly.

Stewart's cheeks have flushed a dark, ugly colour. Rachel takes that as the silver lining for the day.

"Why didn't anyone think it was me?" Anna asks, several moments later, suffering from the realisation that nobody has thought about her for almost three seconds.

"Don't be stupid, Anna" Rachel tells her, letting her eyes close again. "We'd never expect that kind of self-awareness from you."

Anna looks pleased. Spencer mutters something that sounds like an exhortation to God.

"You're not Tim, Spencer" Rachel advises him, as Anna's head whips round, outrage twisting her features with an indignant _"Hey!"_ bursting out of her mouth and Rachel wonders if there's a technical term for the moment the last horse finally crosses the finish line.

* * *

"Ah-crikey-well, I could have the bacon sandwich or-ah-the sausage sandwich-now, a sausage sandwich can be delightful, a rotund _engorgement_ of flavours-and a bacon sandwich considerably more flaccid, Osborne-but then again-"

"Boris" George mutters, flashing a smile at the woman waiting behind the counter for them to make their selection and for the cameras to leave. "Just hurry up and choose your fucking breakfast before the 2020 election comes round."

There are times in his political career when George wonders whether going to Eton would have been wholly an advantage or a disadvantage. Now is one of those times. David and Oliver and even Rees-Mogg, despite the fact he seems to live in a world of his own half of the time and manage to be annoyingly difficult to dislike, all have memories of Boris from their schooldays. Boris on a rugby pitch, charging at opponents in the throngs of the Wall Game, Boris lounging on a stool at Tap, the sprawling centre of Pop, Boris lumbering from one pillar to another to stare at his cheat sheets for the school play. George sometimes thinks that makes it easier for them to regard Boris's antics as an adult in the same light-simply growing up with Boris being Boris perhaps inures them to it, whether that's good or bad in itself.

Now, watching Boris umm and ahh next to him in characteristic fashion, mess of blond hair protruding from his anorak, George studies him as they head back to the ministerial car, Boris munching away, having managed, unsurprisingly, to snaffle both of his chosen sandwiches and an extra one besides.

If one was debating the merits of a potential confidante, George is fairly certain that Boris, for all his dubious charms, would not make the top of most people's selection lists.

"He'd probably try to fucking shag your mate himself" had been Balls' tactful assessment of the matter the night before.

"Thank you for the image." George had turned over on his side in bed, idly regarding his book and putting it aside for the more illuminating prospect of conversation with his rival. "Let's face it, Boris is an expert in this-" He'd grimaced. "Area."

There'd been a pause, then "Jesus, he actually has-!"

"Oh, for God's-I am _intending_ to sleep tonight, Balls."

But now, George glances at Boris, still munching contentedly away. "How is-ah-Stephanie?"

Boris only ceases chewing for barely a second. "Stephanie. Ah- _Stephanie-"_

"Your Stephanie."

Boris keeps chewing this time, now that he's clearly had a moment to calibrate his answer. "Ah. Stephanie. Yes. Yes, yes, she's-she's fantastic-absolutely delightful, Helen's doing a marvellous job with her. Positive Demeter of mothering, that one."

Very Boris-like, George manages to think with a glance out the window. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think Boris had absolutely nothing to do with Stephanie's arrival in the world.

"See her this weekend?" George asks deliberately, casually.

"Ah-yes-yes, of course-" Boris rumples the famous hair-George waits. "Actually-in fact, no! No, no, of course-it's not my weekend with her, of course-but I was down in Oxfordshire when-ah-she was with us last weekend, we were bobbing about in the pool with the cover over, she's the proverbial water baby, one might say-a nymph in infancy. Persephone was a name I suggested for her, though of course Helen thought that would serve as a reference to the Underworld, ah-" Another rumple of the hair.

George allows Boris to burble himself into silence, which he knows full well is exactly what Boris is counting on, which he knows that Boris most probably knows as well.

"And anyway-" Boris gives George a look that anyone else would take as mock-suspicion. George knows better. "What's all this about, eh, Osborne? Is this a-a valiant attempt at counteracting the prevailing culture of primogeniture by slighting my four elder progeny?"

"Not at all." George smiles at him. "Don't forget-three younger brothers. I'm sure I have just as much vested interest in primogeniture as you do."

Their eyes hold each other's a second too long. George lets the moment hang there, a quiet reminder for Boris as they head closer and closer to their destination, where the cameras will be waiting, clamouring for the picture of two possible future Tory leaders climbing from a car together.

"In that case-" Boris ruffles his hair ostentatiously. "In that case, Osborne, what say we call it pax?" He holds out his hand, gaze roaming over George's face. "In the name of purely cynical mutual self-interest?"

George doesn't allow his eyebrow to arch. Instead, he simply reaches out, takes Boris's hand. "Quite" he says, with a small smile, shaking Boris firmly by the hand, their gazes locked the whole time.

* * *

Nick reaches the bottom of the hill and promptly falls over, to a cheer from Will.

"What the hell was that?" Harry guffaws, stamping his skis to rid them of excess snow, as Pippa helps him up.

"That-" Nick pushes his glasses further up his nose, as he struggles valiantly to his feet. "Was a triumph of multitasking." Off the boys' bemused looks, he clarifies. "Peter Mandelson's said something about Labour. I've just been chatting to Jim Naughtie from the top of the slope."

"I meant what was _that."_ Harry points at the skis. "You looked like Mr Bean."

"Thanks, Harry."

"Seriously, you're 52. Are you sure we're not going to have to take you home in a coffin?"

Pippa freezes, but Nick laughs. Harry gives him an odd look, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "It wasn't that funny."

Nick shakes his head, stands upright. As Will pushes himself off down the next slope, he lets his hand creep into Pippa's for a moment, her gloved hands squeezing tightly around his.

* * *

"So-" Ruth takes a swig of the Irn Bru. "How's Scotland treating you?"

David glances down at the fish and chips spread out on the hotel bedcovers. "So far pretty much the same as the English. Minus the Mars Bar, which I will leave-" He flicks it across the bed to Ruth. "To you."

Ruth snorts. "Take a bite, Eton boy." She chucks it back at David. "Never even tried it in the indyref."

"No, I'm quite fond of my arteries."

David likes Ruth. Scratch that. David loves Ruth. And not just because she's almost single-handedly wrestling the party from complete obliteration in Scotland. Ruth's one of the few people who would be comfortable to have a quick meeting, minus aides, sprawled on a hotel bed, eating fish and chips out of a paper bag and trying to force-feed her companion deep-fried Mars bars.

"How's Jenn?" he asks, biting another chip, trying not to sound as though the question's of too much or too little importance.

"She's great." Ruth bites into another chip, coating it in salt. "Probably savouring a night away from me.

"Do the press-" David chews a chip of his own thoughtfully, as he mulls over the question he's been pondering how to ask for a while. "Do the press-bother you much up here?"

Ruth eyes him sharply over her chip. "You mean with the gay thing, right?"

David blushes. Ruth grins, and crunches into her fish triumphantly. "Not much. We got a few mentions when we first got snapped together. But I'd had other girlfriends before, remember. And if you're not trying to run the whole country, it's not so big a deal."

David chooses his next words with care. "Do you think....have they been....better or worse?"

"What, do they call us dykes?"

David feels his cheeks grow rosier. "More tactfully than that."

Ruth shrugs. "Actually, it's not been as bad as I'd thought it'd be, to be honest. The press wanted to be really PC about the whole thing, because they didn't want IPSO crawling all over them, so that was a belly laugh, watching them all try not to wet themselves over their big scoop while breaking themselves in two trying to squeeze through the guidelines-"

"Miliband'll be pleased to hear that."

Ruth gives him a grin. "More annoying than Kez, then?"

David snorts. "More annoying than most of the world" he mutters, the words more heartfelt than Ruth could know-in the last few days, he reckons Miliband has probably managed to give him more grief than he has in the entirety of his last five years as Leader Of The Opposition, including all the days of bloody Leveson, and ironically, most of it has been almost completely inadvertent.

Something in his voice must betray something of his inner turmoil because Ruth gives him a quick glance. "But then you lot seem closer down south." She bites the end off another chip. "Maybe it's because you're all walled up in that Hogwarts together."

David snorts. "He wants us to move out of there as it is."

He curses himself a second later, but it's too late. He fixes his gaze on the TV, chewing a mouthful of fish he can no longer taste, manfully professing interest in the blank screen and determinedly ignoring Ruth's gaze. He wonders when the hell Miliband crept into his life like this, almost blurring the edges.

* * *

"What do you think of Miliband?" George says, almost casually, as they climb back into the car, after Boris has finished glad-handing.

"Ah-young Miliband." George tries not to roll his eyes as Boris ruffles his hair again. The fact is, he's seen Boris do this a thousand times and for the amount of times he's seen it, he's pretty sure David and the others have seen it a thousand more, and he's still not sure whether any of them know if it's entirely real, including Boris himself.

"Rather misguided" Boris concludes kicking back in his seat. "But then they all are, pitiable socialist little sods. Rather odd about Dave, isn't he?"

George doesn't quite let himself still, but he considers the words very carefully.

"What do you mean?" He keeps the words light, casual, knowing that Boris'll be searching them even more now that Dave's name's come into the equation.

Boris chuckles, mostly to himself. "Well. Couldn't bloody shut up about me wanting to dethrone dear old Dave, back on that Olympic bus. You know, thinks I want to wrestle him out of the seat of power, ram his handsome head on a stick-"

George stays still for another moment, before he says "Maybe some people just don't prefer blonds, Boris."

Boris chortles to himself but George can feel rather than spot the other man's gaze sharpen, taking him in.

George lets the silence last almost a minute. Partly, this is because he enjoys making Boris wait. Partly, he's choosing his words very carefully.

"Or he's just fond of Dave." Now George watches Boris very carefully out of the corner of his eye, waiting for his reaction.

Boris frowns, ruffles his hair again. George waits carefully, feeling the danger of the moment, what he's just said, prickle his skin, letting Boris turn it over. Someone else might not have said it at all. George waits, calculating.

"Well" Boris says, after a moment. "There's-ah-such a thing as getting a little too close, old boy. Know your enemy and all, fine words, but ah-waters get muddied, vision gets cloudy-"

"Quite" says George, still looking out of the window. "Why you should always look to experience on that kind of thing."

George keeps his gaze unseeingly on the window, lets Boris absorb the words. He feel his fingers fold and unfold.

"Well." Boris puffs out his cheeks when what feels like forever has gone by, rumpling the blond mop. "Quite right. Experts on these matters-experience better than years, what I always say, though. Now, the-ah-Greeks-marvellous people-had a saying, if one should need help here-"

George turns slowly in his seat. Even as Boris is expounding on the one of his many tangents, hands going, blond head nodding away, his eyes meet George's for barely half a second, gaze sharpening. George allows himself to listen, thanking God silently for the classicism, which allows a hat to be thrown over the considerable task that asking Boris a favour that keeps him onside without saying anything aloud can be.

* * *

David is sitting with his feet dangling into the warm water, staring at his phone when a voice says "David."

He turns round too quickly, the phone almost slipping between his fingers into the pool. A hand darts out and grabs it, pushing it back into his own. David blinks, staring at Emily.

"Thanks, Em."

Emily almost smiles, but not quite. "You got back late."

David nods. "Mmm. About an hour ago." Last night, he'd only snatched a few hours of sleep before he'd had to get up to head to Scotland. Now, his eyes are stinging but instead of going to bed the moment he'd shut the oak door of Chequers behind him, he's sitting here by the pool, his legs dangling into the water, telling himself that dialling the number he wants to dial should be no issue at all.

He tries not to let his breathing quicken as Emily sits down next to him. She's wrapped in a robe, which she yanks higher around her thighs to let her feet skim the surface of the pool. "Who were you phoning?"

"Oh." David turns the phone over stupidly, as though someone else put it in his hand. "Oh. No one, actually, I was just-"

"Looking at it." Emily's voice is flat. David swallows, his mouth suddenly intensely dry. He waits, looking away from Emily.

"Sam told you, didn't she." Emily's voice doesn't change at all. David glances down at his knees, feeling his heart pound sickly in his chest.

He takes a long breath, testing the words carefully. "What did she say?"

"You're having an affair."

David actually laughs. He feels almost faintly hysterical, the sound echoing weakly off the pool, bouncing back into his ears so it sounds for a moment as though it's someone else altogether, laughing at both of them.

If only he was having an affair.

It's when Emily's hand slaps his face, hard, sending his head flying backwards, that David realises he said the first two words aloud.

His hand flattens on the poolside, cheek searing, hand flying to his face, thoughts reeling with the sting of the slap. "What the _fuck?"_ The words shatter accusingly in the air, his hand pressed to his cheek disbelievingly. _"Jesus,_ Emily-" His thoughts are scattered, the world spinning slightly as she stares at him, eyes wild and glittering under her dark hair.

"You fucking _shit."_

"I'm not having a fucking affair!" David half-scrambles upright, his face still searing bright. "For fuck's _sake-"_

His insides roil sickly with guilt, even though the words feel true. But then, if he thinks about what he and Miliband spent Wednesday evening doing, what's the difference, really?

Emily stares at him. "What-you're-" She shakes her head. "She's not _lying_ , Dave."

"No, she's-" David pulls himself up. "She's-she's not lying. She's telling the-wait, she-she-it's more-" He presses his forehead into is hands. "It's not an affair" he finishes wretchedly, the words seeming to shrink at the sheer impossibility of the explanation before him. "Sam-Sam told me-Sam said I-"

Emily's head jerks suddenly, slightly. "I know" she says, almost angrily, staring out at the pool as if not really seeing it. "She told me. That you wouldn't have without her saying that."

David stares at her. "Then why did you-" he hears himself demand indignantly, pointing accusingly at his cheek.

"Because she's my sister." Emily almost grinds the words out, looks away from him. "She's my sister." For a moment, David thinks he sees the glint of unshed tears, but when Emily swings round to meet his gaze, her eyes are dry.

"She told me some of it" she says, folding her arms tight across her chest as though she might shatter. David feels himself nod uncertainly.

"I'm not going to ask you about....it." Emily presses her lips together, pushing the word out as though it makes her feel sick. "You-you-it's just you-"

She looks away, then back. "Sam says you're in love" she says, the last word almost cracking into a wild laugh, as though it's the most disgusting thing she can imagine.

Then she steps towards him, head tilting, peering at him through her dark fringe. "Sam says you're in love" she says again, much more softly, and this time David thinks maybe he can see the sparkle of tears.

"I-" The word comes out in a splutter, as Emily's words catch up with him, leaving him floundering. "I-God-I-I don't-"

_Say no_ , his brain screams at him. _Say no. It's easy._

_You're-you're-_

David's mouth opens and closes helplessly.

"Are-" Emily's eyes close, as though she has to physically restrain herself from finishing the question.

She looks away, hugging herself tighter, and David's grateful for it, for the moment it gives him, to look at the tiles, thoughts teeming.

He-he-he can't-he-

Slowly, he sits back down on the edge of the pool. After a moment, he feels rather than sees Emily reach him, sitting a little closer this time.

"I'm sorry I slapped you" she says, after several silent seconds. "I shouldn't've done that."

"Too bloody right you shouldn't" David mutters, still nursing his cheek.

Emily's breath hitches. "Sam's my sister" she says again, softly. Her fingers almost ghost David's face, butterfly light, then away.

There's another long silence, before Emily says "She told me not to ask you who."

David can't speak at that.

"But I-" Emily looks down at her clasped hands, then bursts out, almost in a rush, "Look, if you're-if you leave the kids, Dave-"

David jerks in surprise. "I'll never-"

"I know-" and Emily's combing her hair distractedly with her fingers. "No, no, no, I know, I know, it's just-what if she, what if you, you know-"

"It's not like that." David says the words wearily, suddenly feeling very, very tired. "It's not like that, Em." He's not quite sure, suddenly, of whether or not that would be easier. "It's not like that at all-Jesus, he'd-"

David freezes. For a moment, he's sure his heart has stopped in his chest.

"What?" Emily's head snaps round to look at him. _"He?"_

David's mouth opens and closes.

"No. No. Not-"

"You're-" Emily's staring at him. "You're-are you-you're saying you're-"

"No!" David shoves his forehead into his hands, cursing himself. "No, no, I'm _not-"_

Emily's silent for a moment, David's rapid breathing the only sound in the air between them. Then, "Dave, you don't need to-"

"I'm _not."_ David hears his voice crack desperately. "That's the thing. I'm not. I'm _not."_

There's another silence. David tugs restlessly at a loose thread on his trousers.

"Does Sam know?" Emily's voice is quiet at his side.

"Yeah."

"Do I know? I mean, him? Do I know him?"

David's lips part, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the water.

Emily, after a moment's waiting, nods quietly. "Right" is all she says.

David looks at her, opens his mouth, but decides against it. Instead, he looks away, thoughts still wrestling.

"I really am sorry I slapped you." Emily's voice is quiet. "But she's my sister."

David shakes his head. The faint stinging in his cheek is already receding, as though belonging to another, easier lifetime.

"David." Emily touches his arm, tentatively, as though he might veer away. "David. I-"

She's silent, searching for words.

"I love you" is all she says, quietly.

David nods.

"I just wanted to know you know that."

He nods again.

"And I love Sam. And if you two-"

"We won't."

"You won't."

David shakes his head firmly. He knows that. He's determined on that.

"And he-"

"Right now, I don't know if he'll ever speak to me again." David's voice is flat, almost toneless. He's grateful that it hides the sudden prickling in his eyes, the gathering in the back of his throat. He looks away from Emily hastily, jaw working furiously.

It's a moment before Emily's hand, cautiously, falls onto his shoulder. "He will."

It takes a second for the words to sink in, and then David turns to look at her. But something about Emily's grip on his shoulder holds him still.

"He will." Emily's voice is lower, quicker this time, almost as if the words are being snatched from her mouth.

David opens his own to ask. But instead, he falls quiet. Instead, they sit there, Emily's hand on his shoulder, words thrumming silently between them, as they watch the moonlight shimmering on the water.

* * *

"You seem down" Simon says conversationally, as though completely unaware of the reasons why.

Ed leans against the window, exhausted. Between Mandelson and the Mail, the day's been a complete disaster, apart from the bits where he got to talk to people. "Maybe everyone should get to talk to you on a train" Ayesha had told him bracingly, during a hasty phone call earlier. "That'd win you the election."

But then when he meets girls like the one he's just met, and he rubs his eyes. "I was talking to that girl, Sophie." She'd been a sliver of a thing, like she'd disappear in the blink of an eye, arms folded miserably across her chest, as though constantly preparing for a situation where she'd need consolation.

"Terrible, to have such a-a sense of _hopelethness-"_

She'd stared at him, miserably. "The doctors have all sent me away" she'd said, her eyes sparkling with tears, mascara smeared underneath. "I've got nothing left."

"Bleakneth."

Ed wraps his arms around himself automatically, as though in sympathy. "Awful" he manages, and then turns away to look out of the window.

Because if Cameron could only _see_ -if he could see what Ed did, then-

He's got to stop doing this. He's got to stop thinking of Cameron as-as-

As human-

But he is, that's ridiculous. He's not _inhuman._ He's-

But as someone who can-can be persuaded that-

"What's the hardest part?" Ed becomes aware of Simon's voice and as he looks round, blinking, deduces from his expression that it's not the first time he's said Ed's name.

"The-the hardetht part-"

"Of campaigning?"

"Oh." Ed slumps forward, fingers braiding themselves into his hair. "Um-well-th-stamina is-is a challenge." He manages a faint smile. "But-you know-now I relish the 16-hour days. It's true"-off Simon's slight grin. "I do."

Because for the last two days, they're the only things that have stopped him thinking of Nick Clegg standing in that doorway, staring at them, and Cameron's voice on that phone call.

But, even without glancing at Tom through the gap of the open compartment door, Ed knows this isn't what he's supposed to leave it at.

"But-not seeing my family is probably the-the hardest thing."

Tom nods approvingly. Ed looks away, feeling an odd twist of nausea.

But he knows what Tom's waiting for and so he roots in his pocket, fingers fumbling around his phone, which suddenly feels wider and heavier than usual. "Here-"

He clicks through the photographs, until he finds the one of Daniel and Sam under the Christmas tree. This had seemed a safe one to show to the press without being published, even if they're both looking away from him, along with a shot of the one Justine found of them in the park. "We're getting that one blown up" he lies too easily.

Simon's grin dents his cheeks. "Cute. Do you find it's hard-getting the time to see them and everything?"

Ed hesitates, mind whirring, awareness prickling all over his skin. "Well-I mean, you try your best but-"

Another flash of last night, Daniel's little arms held up to him, making Ed rear back. _Please. Please don't do that. You don't know. You don't know what-_

"Daniel-" He makes himself laugh, so his eyes don't sting and he looks away to the window, blinking hard. "Daniel did say yesterday _"You're always on the phone.""_

His voice trails off abruptly and he stares out through the glass at the dark sky, remembers it was dark when he left this morning too. Simon is silent, watching him.

Ed clears his throat and turns back to the table. "That's what I worry about" he says too quickly, picking the phone up and shoving it back in his pocket. "I don't-I don't want to be an absent dad."

The words sound small, forlorn in the air. Glancing into Simon's face, Ed sees the faintest wince of sympathy.

Sympathy. Ed hardens his voice.

"That's a challenge in this job." He leans back in his seat, unconsciously imitating Cameron's lean. "And it's a challenge if I'm Prime Minister."

Through the gap, Tom gives him the quickest flicker of a thumbs-up.

"Going back to-to your own childhood-" Simon leans forward, hands clasped. "Was there-was there any political event there that you remember, anything particular that really-really politicised you, so to speak?"

Ed swallows, looking down. "Er-" It would be harder for him to remember a time that wasn't about politics. One of the first things he can remember, if he really strains, is crawling around his father's feet, listening to him talk.

But he senses that won't help the impression and when he does open his mouth, what comes out surprises him as well as Simon.

"I suppose the first-first political event I was conscious of-was Ruth First." Off Simon's blank look, he says "My parents' friend. Who was killed by a letter bomb."

Simon blinks. "God-"

"She-yeah-she-she was married to Joe Slovo, and they were big-big anti-apartheid figures, and she was-she was assassinated by the South African police when I was about-about 12, I think."

He can see himself, standing in the kitchen doorway, twelve and too skinny and for once downstairs before David, and his father standing with his head in his hands, jaw working furiously. Hear his own too-high, not-yet-broken voice. _Mum?_ Feel his arms holding out awkwardly and his mother, face crumpled and red, take a step back, a tiny step but one that felt like a shove in the chest.

"It's just-" Ed looks almost defiantly back at Simon. "If you have somebody you meet in your parents' living room-"

His voice almost trails off as he stares out of the window. "And then they get murdered-"

His father had turned away from him, fist pressed to his mouth. Edward had stood there, glancing from one to the other, arms falling to his sides, all three of them alone.

"You think, Christ-"

He chews his lip, staring out of the glass at the dark, thinking how the boys will be asleep when he gets home and asleep when he leaves again, but-

"These are big things people are fighting for."

He sees that photograph again without needing to look at his phone and shoves it away fiercely, even as it wrenches at his chest. They are. They are.

He has to understand, and they will too, and he turns round back to Simon, meets his gaze with a stare back that's almost defiant. But it's Simon who keeps looking until Ed glances away.

* * *

David nearly puts the phone down, but clamps it tighter to his ear instead. He walks slowly back and forth, the moonlight occasionally making him squint, glancing back at where Emily sat just a few moments before.

When the voice on the other end cracks into his ear, uncharacteristically roughened by sleep, David jumps slightly, as though it wasn't him who started the call in the first place.

"David." The voice marbles with sleep-dragged confusion. "It's the middle of the night."

"I know. I'm sorry." David snaps his mouth shut tightly, wincing. He shouldn't have phoned. He should have waited. He should have just crawled into bed and pretended the entire bizarre saga was some sort of nightmare, just for tonight.

"Well." There's a silence, then, "Has something happened? An attack or-"

"No. No." David shakes his head. "Nothing like that."

"I see."

David shakes his head, turns away despairingly from a glimpse of his own face, reflected strangely back at him in the glass panels.

"No, I-forget it. It's late, you're right, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called. Sorry-"

"No, wait. Wait-" David squeezes his eyes shut, lets his forehead rest on his clenched fist. The other man is silent, only his breathing audible, slightly quicker than usual. Then "Is this about Miliband?"

David's eyes fly open. His fist presses almost painfully hard into his mouth before he yanks it away, the words almost spitting themselves out in small sharp jabs. "Why-why would you say that?"

Another silence, this one humming with all the many possibilities of answers. Then, "I just wondered."

"You didn't." Somewhere inside, a part of David manages to marvel at how steady his own voice is. The fact that it's steady at all. "You didn't. Why did you?"

There's a breath of silence, during which David can almost hear the other man's thoughts ticking. Then, "I know you're.....closer than you'd like to be."

"We're not close." David could bite the words back the second they're out, but it's too late. He says them again, more quietly, as though that could hurt less. "We're not close."

Another silence. Then, "All right." The voice is careful, steady, waiting to be taken, moulded, until you've managed to shape it into whatever story you want. "I just heard differently, that's all."

David freezes. It takes every ounce of self not to ask who by.

"They want to film the kids" he blurts out instead, too loudly.

"Ah."

"They want to film them. At home with us."

"You know that's up to you and Samantha."

"But it's not really, is it?"

Another loud, thrumming silence. Then, "You know that as well as I do."

"They're not seeing their faces" David blurts out, as if that means anything.

"It-" The other man's voice catches, for barely a second. "It has to be your choice."

"And theirs'."

"Yes. And theirs'." But David's sure the other man's voice was a breath too quick.

"You-you-" David closes his eyes, struggling against the weight of the questions bending in his mind.

_You know this-you know-_

"Have you talked to Miliband?" The words are torn out almost defensively, breaking defiantly in the air. They spill over the edge of the swimming pool like shattered glass.

Another pause. Then, "You know my answer on that."

"You know what I'm asking you."

A sigh. Then, "He hasn't raised you with me. No."

"Right." David stares at the floor, gripping the phone tightly.

But then, "You know." A soft sound that could almost be a laugh, then "They never _do_ , do they?"

This time, David can almost hear the smile in the man's voice. He feels his own mouth twitch very slightly and reminds himself that there was a reason that he called him, after all.

* * *

Watching the children cycle ahead, David stops, glances at Samantha, who's come to a halt, fiddling with her helmet. He hesitates, and then realises what he's doing.

"Here" he says, through the sudden thickness in his throat, and when Sam looks at him, he takes the straps between his fingers, has to pause for a moment as they shake.

Sam's hand covers his. "Dave-"

David looks away, wipes at his eyes. "Sorry." He glances ahead at the kids, but Nancy and Elwen are far enough ahead not to hear, their protection officers forming a loose ring around them, Nancy pushing her bike along for a few steps, Elwen still half-balanced on his. David looks away, trying to distract himself with the familiar hedgerows, the wide open sky. Grey and threatening rain doesn't diminish it-just gives it a whisper of wildness, a murmur of the outcast.

They drove down to the Oxfordshire countryside on Saturday morning, before the simultaneous end of the kids' half-term and the Parliamentary recess on Monday. But the sheer familiarity of the lane around him-one down which they've ridden with the kids, sometimes on their own bikes, sometimes perched on the back of one of theirs'-a thousand times, hits him like a pound in the chest, and he looks down again, eyes stinging. "Sorry. Just-Jesus, I'm sorry."

Sam's hand closes around his. "Dave." She hugs him suddenly, hard, quickly, but her arms tighten around him.

David closes his eyes, buries his face in her shoulder. "It's not just that" he says, his voice muffled. "I mean, it is that, but-" He glances again at the children ahead, Nancy yanking her ponytail free from her helmet, Elwen spinning the pedals with his feet.

"I can-" Sam reaches out then, takes his chin in her hand, tilts his face down towards hers'. "Dave. I can do more. We don't have to have them-I can try more. Do more-"

David shakes his head. "No. No. That won't-" He leans his head on her shoulder again, takes a long, slow, shuddering breath. "That won't....do it. It's not....more of us they want. It's....them. They'll want them." He looks down the lane, then away, quickly, his eyes misting over. "They want....us. To see us. And if they see Miliband's-" His throat thickens. "They want us, too."

He feels a well of anger in his chest, suddenly, and has to look away, his hands shaking.

"Dave." Sam's hand curls around his arm. "This isn't some competition with Miliband."

The name cracks in the air between them.

David shakes his head. "No. It's. It's not, he-" He squeezes his eyes shut again. "This is just-" He shakes his head. "Let's just see what they say." His voice is a whisper, praying he already knows. Praying he doesn't. "And if they don't, we won't let it happen."

He looks away from her, eyes wet.

When he looks back, Sam's watching him. She takes his hand and slowly moves it back to the strap. Moving his fingers, she manipulates them round the material, pulling it securely into place, and, using his hands, fastens it herself.

* * *

"All right, Nance?" Nancy glances back as they pedal, bringing her bike round in a half-circle, Dad's hand coming out to steady her.

"I'm good." Elwen's up ahead with Mum-since Florence is still at the stage where she can speed along on her stabilisers until they're removed, whereupon she promptly tends to sit ramrod straight for a moment and then slowly tilt over like a tree at the storm, she's gone to the farm next door to their cottage, to play with Evie.

They've been at Chequers all week, only arriving in the Cotswolds yesterday morning. Nancy hasn't minded-Liberty was there for the first weekend, and even after they and Uncle George left-they've gone to Israel for the week-Perry and Rex had been there. Perry might be a boy and younger than Nancy by eight months, but he's not unbearable to be around, most of the time. The only downside had been that Nancy couldn't see Lola or any of the other girls from her class who might be handing out invitations to a sleepover or cinema trip or whatever they wanted to do.

Some of the girls in their class this year are already starting to be allowed to go to the cinema on their own or to wander around Westfields', in the daytime, at least. Lola hasn't suggested it yet, but Nancy's sure it will happen at some stage, and every time she thinks about it, she feels as though her insides are being squashed down into her stomach.

She can't say anything to Lola. Lola's great, but this is one of the things Nancy just can't explain to her. Bea and Liberty are her best bets, but even there, Nancy never likes to emphasise the fact that she's a year younger than them.

"Careful on the hill-" Dad's hand steadies her bike. "Here, let Chris-"

Nancy hangs back as Chris, one of their bodyguards, cycles ahead, pausing to check the bottom of the hill as he glides down, before turning and signalling back to them.

Bea doesn't actually have to go out with bodyguards-there's one outside their house and one outside her school sometimes, but Nancy's pretty sure that's it. Ever since Bea started at Grey Coat in September, she's been going out to Westfields every couple of weekends-or bowling, or to the cinema-without either of her parents at all. Not at night, and only for a few hours, but still.

Liberty does have to have a protection officer with her, but for her, it's different. At her school, half the kids in the class have famous parents, or at least parents whose names appear in magazines every so often. Liberty had told Nancy after her first day that at least three other girls in her class had a guard outside the school gates and one even had to have one waiting outside in the _corridor._

Nancy leans on her brakes as she slides to the bottom of the hill, standing up on her pedals, wind rushing through her hair. What's she meant to do, she thinks as she comes to a halt, if someone asks her to go to Westfields? Ask them to pretend not to notice the forty-something-year-old walking behind them everywhere they go? Their bodyguards even have to go into the _toilets_ before them, for God's sake. The only way she could draw more attention to herself would be to bring Dad himself along.

Nancy sighs, toeing the mud morosely, letting Dad catch up with her.

"You OK, Nance?" Dad touches her shoulder and Nancy knows he's thinking of the night he found her in the living room.

This isn't that, though. All this is just....annoying.

"Listen-" Dad slows down, so that they're cycling more slowly, Nancy occasionally pushing herself along with one foot.

"Yeah?"

"Auntie Emily was saying to Mum-" Dad cocks his head at her. "How would you three feel about going to Ireland at Easter?"

Nancy blinks. "Don't you have the election?" They went to Lanzarote last Easter, but since Dad's got the election at the start of May, Nancy had kind of presumed they'd just be coming back to the Cotswolds.

Dad seems to take a while to answer. "We were thinking-maybe it could be just you three."

Nancy turns to stare at him. "You and Mum aren't coming?" They've never been on holiday without their parents. Their parents have never even been on holiday without _them_ , except once for Mum's 40th birthday and that was ages ago, and even then they only went for two days. Dad's sometimes had to go home early from holidays, like when they went to Italy, but they've never been on holiday without him _or_ Mum there.

"We were thinking of asking you one by one" Dad says, giving her another look. "Rather than have you or El pushed into a corner."

Nancy frowns. "What will you and Mum do?"

"Well, that's the thing, Nance. The election's going to be-" Dad trails off, then says, "The thing is, Nance, there's going to be a lot of cameras around. It'll be the last few weeks of the election in the Easter holidays, and they're probably going to be outside the house. And we don't really want you to be around that. Especially Flo. You know how little she is."

Nancy glances at him, then again, with a sudden, almost violent understanding.

"Oh." She stares at her sneaker on the pedal, focuses quietly on that. She can feel Dad's gaze watching her, and she knows suddenly, without knowing how she understands yet, that he's worried and that he would rather her not have to understand it, but she does, if only slightly.

"Will Perry and Rex be there?" she asks, after several moments of silence, apart from the slight graze of her tyres against the path. She grasps for the ease of their names, for letting her dad believe that all that she's worried about is her cousins and having someone to play with, and not about him and Mum at all, almost without knowing that's what she's doing.

"Yeah." Dad's shoulders almost sink with relief, carefully guiding her bike around a pothole, climbing off to do so. "You'll be staying in the holiday cottage, remember, like Auntie Emily showed us-one near the beach, as well."

Nancy looks at her father properly. "For the whole holiday?" she asks, not being able to help it.

"No. No." Dad helps her back onto her bike. "We were thinking just a week maybe. We'd have Easter together and then you could go to Ireland a couple of days on. When you come back, Uncle Michael and Uncle George might come here for a few days. And listen, Mum was thinking, we could all go back to Ibiza for half-term in May. Now Flo's bigger, she can probably notice things a bit more than last time. Maybe bring Uncle George and Uncle Michael, and a couple of others. The villa's big enough, remember, and it's got that pool." Dad gives her a quick grin that's slightly lopsided. "Be something to look forward to, won't it?"

Nancy meets his eyes, and remembers that half-term isn't until the very end of May this year.

"Yeah" she says, more quietly than usual, pedalling her bike forward again and feeling oddly older, especially when Dad squeezes her shoulder as she sets off. "To look forward to."

* * *

" _Here I stand, in the light of day-_ "

Elwen leans his head on his hands. "Flo, stop singing."

" _Let the storm rage-"_ Florence takes a deep, ominous breath, and Elwen covers his ears.

_"ONNNNNN-"_

As Florence reaches a pitch generally reserved only for dogs to hear, Nancy leans over and gently covers her sister's mouth with one hand. Florence's brow crumples in annoyance, big blue eyes staring accusingly as she mouths against her sister's fingers.

"Here, Flo-" Mum hands her her toy koala Uncle Lynton gave her. "Here. Make him and Rose Rabbit get married or something. Just let Daddy talk."

Florence squints doubtfully at this and kicks her legs back and forth against the couch. Alone of the three children, she's already in her pyjamas, hair washed and brushed for school the next day. Nancy and Elwen are still in their clothes, having been called to the couch for a conversation before their own bathtimes, having returned to Downing Street about an hour earlier than usual. (Nancy will reflect later on that she should probably have noticed this. Nothing can tear Dad away from roast potatoes.)

"Listen." Dad leans over and gently tilts Flo's chin up for her big blue eyes to meet his over her rabbit's ears. "We need to have a chat with you about what's going to happen in the next few weeks."

Nancy and Elwen exchange a glance over their sister's head. Florence, on the other hand, sucks her rabbit's ear and hums "Do You Want To Build A Snowman?"

"You know there's going to be an election on 7th-7th of May" Dad corrects himself, leaning forward on the couch, arm around Nancy's shoulders. "What do you know about what the election does?" This to Flo, who's bouncing her koala about her lap, still chewing her rabbit's ear.

"No, don't know" she burbles a second later, looking up at Dad with her eyes wide, and snuggling into her mother's lap.

"You know Daddy's Prime Minister" Mum says, gently touching Flo's cheek, tapping her nose gently.

Flo nods rapidly. _"Yes._ And don't tell anyone, because _boasting-"_ She shrieks this word triumphantly, bouncing upright, and nearly kicking Elwen in the shoulder, leading Dad to gently lean round and take her shoulders, sitting her back down. Nancy isn't convinced, honestly. She's not sure how much Flo _gets_ Dad being Prime Minister, despite her eagerness to tell her whole class about it. But then, Flo's only four. To her, it's probably just words.

"Well, an election's when a lot-all the grown-ups in the country get to choose if they want Daddy to be Prime Minister again." Dad reaches round to tap Flo's chin.

"Or if they want someone else" chips in Elwen.

Flo glances between them.

"So after the election-" Mum touches Flo's forehead.

"Dad might not be-"

"Dad might not be Prime Minister anymore" Mum says, finishing Nancy's sentence for her.

There's a short silence as Flo considers this, mouth pouting into a little strawberry.

"Is that still OK?" she asks doubtfully, looking up at Nancy, brow creased.

"Well, if people decide that's what they want, that's what they have to do" Dad says lightly. "Bu what would happen is-you know about the old house, don't you?"

Nancy thinks this is pushing it slightly. Even _she's_ only got a few memories of the old house and she was six when they moved here. Flo wasn't even _born_ yet. They had a bedroom all set up for her and everything, Nancy remembers, with a cot waiting in case Dad didn't win.

Flo chews her lip, thinking. "The old house still in London?"

"Yeah."

"Where we lived before we came here" Elwen says, angling himself round to look at his little sister. "Before you were born."

Flo's looking doubtfully from one to the other.

"It might not happen" Nancy interjects, reaching over to chuck Flo under the chin.

"If Daddy wins, it might not happen" Mum says, brushing Flo's hair back. "But we just want you to know, in case we might have to move house."

"Will I still have my bed?" is what Flo settles on, after a few moments of consideration, and more nibbling of her rabbit's ears.

"Yeah, you'll have your bed-"

"But in the old house-"

"It'll be your bed, but we'll take it to the old house" Nancy finishes, her and Elwen's voices colliding.

Florence still looks doubtful, but nods.

"We can make your bedroom exactly the same as here" Nancy says, putting her arm around her. She looks at Mum for reassurance. "We can, right?"

"Yeah, of course, we'll-everything will be coming with us-" Mum presses a kiss to Flo's forehead. "And we'll-we'll still have all our old things. We'll just be going back to where we used to live, when Nancy and Elwen were little."

Florence sinks her face into her hands, squashing her cheeks, chipmunk-style. "Okayyyyyyy."

"The thing is, after the election-" Mum says, glancing at Nancy and Elwen too, now. "It'll probably be-we might not know quite what's happening for a few days. So we might have to get ready to move in case we have to very quickly."

Nancy notices Flo's eyes glazing over at this, which will be work for the grown-ups anyway. Perhaps Mum does too, because it's Dad who says "And it's not for a while, yet. It's just that we want you to know, so if we do-"

Flo nods slowly. "How long's 'til May?" she asks suddenly, half-squirming onto her mother's knee.

"Er-"

"Two-three months-"

"Three months, not two months, it's February-"

"Yeah, but we're halfway through February, _duh-"_

"That's _ages"_ Flo announces, now more occupied with tossing her koala in the air. _"Aaaages-"_

"Not ages, really, Flo."

Flo's not listening, eyes on the koala. "Aaaaages away."

She catches her koala and tosses it in the air again. Nancy glances at Elwen, then at Dad. Part of her wants to agree with Flo. Another part of her, a part that's grown older without realising, is remembering the last time they ate breakfast round their old kitchen table, and when she looks up at her father to find him watching her closely, eyes roaming over her face, the 7th of May doesn't feel as far away as Flo thinks.

* * *

It's later, when Dad's getting up from Nancy's bed, Elwen wriggling down to head to his own room, that Dad says, "Listen, you two."

Nancy, extricating Silver, her teddy bear, from under her pillow, props herself up. Elwen leans back against the wall, fiddling with the buttons of his pyjama top.

Dad glances at the door, then turns back to the two of them-Flo's already tucked up in bed. "What we were saying about the election-"

Nancy sits up a little.

"You know Mum and I are going to be out a lot-campaigning and that there'll be cameras and-that sort of malarkey-" Dad sits down on the end of Nancy's bed, tapping her foot through the duvet. "Listen-a lot of people-like Mr Crosby and Uncle Craig-they want me and Mummy to do some filming at home."

"At home here?"

"Maybe." Dad taps Elwen's hand, as he keeps tugging at a loose thread on his pyjamas. "And maybe at the cottage. The thing is-" Dad waits until Elwen looks up from his crossed legs. "We wanted to talk to you about whether you want to join in with the filming or not."

Nancy and Elwen glance at each other. "Like-be interviewed?" Nancy has a mental image of a TV studio.

"No. No, no." Dad shakes his head. "You don't have to talk to anyone. And you don't even have to decide now, it's just that-if you want you-we'll probably just have you sitting at the table. Like when we had the family photos done, remember, after Flo was one?"

Nancy vaguely remembers-them sitting around the table having breakfast before school one morning and being told to look away from the camera towards Flo in her high chair, Flo laughing uproariously, Dad stroking her soft tufts of hair.

"Yeah." Dad nods. "Just having breakfast or having lunch or something. But you don't have to do it if you don't want to. They can just do it with Mummy and me if you want."

Nancy frowns. It's not that she hates having her photo taken, exactly. But there's a massive difference between photos just for them and every single kid in the class watching her eat her porridge on the news.

"We wouldn't film your faces" Dad says suddenly, as though reading her mind. "There won't be any way of people recognizing you. And you don't have to do it. We just wanted to give you some time to think about it for a bit."

"'K." Nancy pulls her knee sup under the duvet. "What about Flo?"

"Flo's little. I think Mum's going to talk to her about it tomorrow, when she's less tired."

Off Nancy's look, Dad touches her knee. "You don't have to do it. I promise."

Nancy nods. She glances at Elwen and nods again, too young to really know whether she's saying yes or not, and Dad looks away, wincing suddenly, as though something's hurt him.

* * *

"Don't hang up." Cameron's voice is a whisper before Ed can finish speaking. "Please, don't hang up. Please."

Ed sits very still, his breath frozen in his chest.

"How did you get our home number?" Each word seems to crack out slowly, hurting in his throat.

There's a silence, then a soft, small laugh. "I'm the Prime Minister."

Ed closes his eyes, shoulders sinking down, something like a laugh wobbling out of his own throat, leaving his eyes stinging. "Arrogant git."

When Cameron laughs again, the sound is high with relief.

"Cameron." Ed shakes his head, because-"Cameron, we, we-he knows. He knows."

"Ed. Ed, he doesn't-he doesn't-"

"We should never have started thith." Ed's voice is a whisper, even though he's alone in the room, curled into the armchair. "You know we shouldn't."

"Ed, I-" There's a short, shaky breath, then "Listen. Just listen. Please."

Ed's silent.

"Ed?"

"You said please." Ed's voice is a whisper.

Another silence. Then "I-"

"You said please." Ed grips the phone, pressing it into his cheek. "What would you have done if th-someone else had answered?"

"Hung up." A beat, then "Then called back."

Ed wants to ask why, but something swells in his throat, stealing his words.

"Because I miss you."

Ed takes in a sharp breath. Then another.

"Cameron" is all he manages, a low warning. "Cameron."

"He doesn't know." David's voice is low, urgent. "Ed, he doesn't know for certain."

"But he will."

"No. Not if we're careful. And he can't say anything. You know he can't."

"But he'll _know."_ Ed looks around the living room, clamping his hand over his mouth-his voice had almost risen to a shout. "He'll know and-"

"He doesn't." Cameron's voice is almost frantic. "He doesn't, Ed."

Ed almost chokes. "Why are you-"

"Why what?"

Ed closes his eyes. "Why do you-why do you want to convinthe me?"

Another silence. Then David says it again, softly. "Because I miss you."

Something curls in Ed's stomach, melts out through him.

"I can't" he whispers, his voice choked.

"Just tell me this." Cameron's voice is sudden, almost desperately quick. "If I hadn't phoned, would you have forgotten about it?"

Ed presses the phone harder into his cheeks, tells himself to hang up.

Cameron doesn't say anything. Neither does Ed.

"Cameron." Ed's voice is a whisper. He'll say please. He'll say anything, really.

"Just don't-" Cameron murmurs something that could be Ed's name. "Don't hang up, please. Please, Edward."

The name catches in Ed's chest. His breath is caught too, a heat tickling the back of his neck, prickling into life.

"Please, Ed."

He nods stupidly, even though David can't see him.

"I'm just-"

"I'm not hanging up." Ed whispers it.

"OK."

"I'm not."

"I just-" David takes in a long, shuddering breath. "We can sort it out. We'll sort it out. All of it. We just-I just-"

"I'm not hanging up."

"Ed."

"Cameron."

"Not hanging up?"

"I'm not."

There's a silence, both of them breathing into the phone, Ed's head resting on his hand, eyes squeezed shut, something squeezing his heart too, very, very slowly between tight fists. Neither of them have answered David's question.

"Still here." David's voice is a whisper.

So is Ed's. "Still here."

* * *

He looks at the phone. The number looks back at him from the screen. No excuse not to dial it. He opens and closes the contacts, looking at the rows of apps shining back at him. If he pressed any of them, nothing would open, no messages, notifications. He'd see an account with his own face, filled with messages he signed off but never typed.

He looks at the window, outside of which he can glimpse the black slick outline of a gun, where it always is, in the arms of a policeman who's always there, with some face in some form, who always steps back with a smile when the white front door opens, like ice cracking on a wedding cake, shouts from whoever might be in the street crumbling down the bars of a gilded cage.

While this house is tall and white that fades into midnight blue, a crumbling fairytale tower from a distance, _his_ looms squatly out of the hills, stubbornly brown-bricked, towering in its' own way, and determinedly solid, as if it's been carved out of the rocks beneath. If this is a wedding cake with crumbling frosting, his is a mountain gorge, peering over a valley with the strain of bagpipes echoing faintly in the distance, the words, declaimed in a gruff whisper, "My love is like a red, red rose" wrapping themselves through the creeping morning mist.

He puts the phone down. Looks at the chair across from him, remembers it in another sitting room, another house, the three of them sitting there.

(Four, five.)

He picks up the phone.

It rings. It rings for less than a minute, as he'd known it would. Because _he_ never sleeps as much as he should and he still knows that, from London, from policemen and gilded bars and guns, from years away.

There's a click and then he waits for the gruff tone, the voice he can sometimes hear rolling through his own in his thoughts, as though still across from him at table, stroking an idea into being between them.

There's a silence that there never was before.

He waits, the way he did once, staring at a kitchen window, looking out into a garden at children whose voices he couldn't hear, as he waited for that voice.

Then it's there, a low rumble, years away and right next to him.

"Tony."

"Gordon."

* * *

_Playlist_

_At A Glance-Message To Bears _ _-"Throw it down, look away/Don't be scared, it's okay/Settle down, set it right/Don't be scared, it's all right"_

_The Sea Is A Good Place To Think Of The Future-Los Campesinos!-" _ _You talk about your politics/And I wonder if you could be one of them/But you could never kiss a Tory boy/Without wanting to cut off your tongue again..So the landscape before you looks just like the edge of the world/But to the left side and the right side/Either way is a crazy golf course..She was always far too pretty for me/To believe in a single word she said, believe in a word she said"_

_Lose Your Mind-Kodaline _ _-"Walking on a tightrope wire/Dropping poison pills of fire, hypnotized/Euphoria will be here soon/Turn the lights down, let the answers fill the room...I'm dreaming up a world with you/And all the things that we could do"_

_Bridges-Broods _ _-"If I didn't hit it, would you still say you needed me?/Guess I walked right into it, guess I made it too easy...If any word that I said could have made you forget/I'd have given you them all/But it was all in your head/Now we're burning all the bridges now/Watching it go up in flames/No way to build it up again/And we're burning all the bridges now/'Cause it was sink or swim/And I went down, down, down"_

_Come Under The Covers-Walk The Moon _ _-"Tiptoe/Down the hall from where you live/These floors are talkative/But it's all right, it's all right...Sometimes, it's like you grew up down the street/It's such a mystery/The way you know me, from where you know me..Summer is over/But I want to leave you satisfied/Summer is over, and I can feel the cold changing us inside/Come under the covers"-I was listening to this while writing some of the scenes._

_Tenerife Sea-Ed Sheeran _ _-"We are surrounded by all of these lies/And people who talk too much/You've got that kind of look in your eyes/As if no one knows anything but us...Just say the word and I will disappear into the wilderness"-I was listening to this while I was editing the scene where David and Sam are talking when Sam reveals that she told Emily about him and Ed._

_The Ghosts Of Beverly Drive-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"If only you'd have known me before the accident/For with that grand collision came a grave consequence...But if you let me be your skyline, I'll let you be the wave/That reduces me to rubble, but looks safe from far away/I don't know why, I don't know why/I return to the scenes of these crimes/Where the hedgerows slowly wind/Through the ghosts of Beverly Drive/I don't know why, I don't know why/I don't know what I expect to find/Where all the news is second hand/And everything just goes on as planned"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meeting between the two Eds that night:https://bit.ly/2UoDDru  
> Some of the rivalry between them:https://bit.ly/2QNJ9BW  
> http://dailym.ai/3dwZSmx  
> The conversations Ed has with Simon:https://bit.ly/2UKNwyR  
> The bike ride David goes on with the kids:https://bit.ly/39q2TSz  
> David's kids being friends with the farmer's kids:https://bit.ly/2WNnGgb  
> Dave explaining the election to the kids:https://bit.ly/2xtnNTy  
> Ed's nanny and in-laws looking after the kids:https://bit.ly/2UqEQia  
> George's brothers:https://bit.ly/2WQ4Rcm  
> Their Israel holidays:https://bit.ly/2wHcuab  
> https://bit.ly/39rC3t4  
> Tony's home:https://bit.ly/2UN9Ho6  
> Gordon's home:https://bit.ly/33Rc8db  
> Gordon is a Burns fan:https://bit.ly/2JhfHjx  
> Gordon's nickname being "son of the manse":https://bit.ly/2UByxag  
> The article on Ed's advisers:http://dailym.ai/2JolX8U  
> Ed's grocery shopping reference:https://bit.ly/3dCllue  
> The racist comment and fight involving Ed at school:http://dailym.ai/2UGD3nV  
> The window cleaner reference:http://dailym.ai/2wFULzO  
> George's inheritance tax announcement in 2007:https://bbc.in/2JjZLNh  
> https://bit.ly/2J1FbRX  
> https://bit.ly/2QjAcjp  
> https://bit.ly/2Ucsrgn  
> https://bit.ly/2Qdlz15  
> https://bit.ly/2Ua9j2A  
> https://bit.ly/38UVgmN  
> https://bit.ly/39PoZyK  
> Stephanie is the daughter Boris fathered during an affair, born in 2009 (who he takes financial/paternal responsibility for):http://dailym.ai/3apkVFz  
> https://bit.ly/3buy8xa  
> http://dailym.ai/3bxpqOJ  
> David and Nick's famous Rose Garden press conference:https://bit.ly/2QOAP4A  
> Ruth discussing being gay:https://bit.ly/3avfo0A  
> Her and Dave at the conference:https://bit.ly/39p6BLW  
> The letter Ed B writes to George:https://bbc.in/2QQ5HBL  
> Peter's tuition fees comments:https://bit.ly/2QSwMEx  
> Nick's skiing holidays:https://bit.ly/2Jkvqyf  
> http://dailym.ai/2UrufU9  
> Ed talking about watching Broadchurch:http://dailym.ai/2wIVK2b  
> Nick visiting Dave's flat:http://dailym.ai/2QPvVoc  
> The holiday David and Sam took for her 40th:http://dailym.ai/2vUfuQ5  
> The holiday to Italy:http://dailym.ai/3dBGO6z  
> http://dailym.ai/3aplTBH  
> The Ibiza holidays, including the villa mentioned:http://dailym.ai/3bsU2Rt  
> https://bit.ly/2y9q0Uh  
> https://bit.ly/2WVbeL8  
> http://dailym.ai/2QTAXjA  
> The Lanzarote holiday:https://bit.ly/2WMhg0D  
> The "last breakfast" the Camerons had in their old home before moving to Downing Street:https://bit.ly/2QPOVme  
> Florence's koala:https://bit.ly/3bryhBi  
> Nancy's teddy:https://bit.ly/2vYiAmi  
> George and Boris in the cafe and on their day out: https://bit.ly/3dDzuYu  
> https://bit.ly/2Jo2rd0  
> https://bit.ly/2WNpANF  
> https://bit.ly/2WObnA5  
> https://bit.ly/3bBET0h  
> https://bit.ly/3auvqaQ  
> https://bit.ly/39ta4cy  
> https://bit.ly/33QctwE  
> https://bit.ly/2UGtbuu  
> https://bit.ly/2QPzwCy  
> https://bit.ly/2UGoe4F  
> https://bit.ly/2Umzhky  
> https://bit.ly/2JlU3uq  
> https://bit.ly/2Umr3ZQ  
> https://bit.ly/3all7G1  
> https://bit.ly/2WTk4cr  
> https://bit.ly/3dCBIag  
> https://bit.ly/2vTILdF  
> https://bit.ly/2xvkDPb  
> https://bit.ly/2UoY081  
> https://bit.ly/33Trw91  
> https://bit.ly/2WOcy2t  
> https://bit.ly/2UFpUeM  
> https://bit.ly/3byg31k  
> https://bit.ly/39vLCHK  
> https://bit.ly/2QTtYH8  
> https://bit.ly/2UBeGYA  
> https://bit.ly/2JnWAEi  
> https://bit.ly/33THeAM  
> https://bit.ly/2QQ28Mb  
> https://bit.ly/3dDyiE6  
> https://bit.ly/3arajGq  
> The family photos in Downing Street (and Chequers) Nancy remembers them taking:https://bit.ly/2wycSrF  
> https://bit.ly/3apRhjK  
> https://bit.ly/33T04rL  
> https://bit.ly/2yfKmvl  
> https://bit.ly/2UKMBy8  
> https://bit.ly/2Untlb1  
> https://bit.ly/3apIFts  
> https://bit.ly/2WVcCxk  
> https://bit.ly/2xr5X3s  
> https://bit.ly/33R9Uul  
> https://bit.ly/2JjVWHV  
> https://bit.ly/3btrhE8  
> https://bit.ly/3dxBT6N  
> https://bit.ly/3dBxVKz  
> https://bit.ly/3brAbSs  
> https://bit.ly/2JhRWI0  
> https://bit.ly/2UmEEQI  
> https://bit.ly/2UKLcYF  
> https://bit.ly/2UmfpOD  
> https://bit.ly/2QQMsZ7  
> https://bit.ly/2JksD8f  
> https://bit.ly/2UKd6Uz  
> https://bit.ly/3bx6m3c  
> https://bit.ly/2wKV5gG  
> https://bit.ly/2JlLwaM  
> https://bit.ly/3annOXy  
> https://bit.ly/3bzyGC6  
> https://bit.ly/2wyV3Zz  
> https://bit.ly/3bzzV4b


	4. Delineating Deals, Conciliating Concerns And Future Fulminations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Peter shouldn't be allowed to go thrifting alone, Ed's birthdays are endless disappointments and there is a Phone Call."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> There are a lot of reference quotes in this one-they deal with George and David L's first meeting, Ed kicking off at Tony Blair and issues with Dom Cummings. A section at the end deals with David M's attempted 2008 putsch against Gordon Brown.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Miliband can and does engage well with the staff. He is interested in their experiences. He is knowledgeable about the challenges faced by the National Health Service. He wants to exchange ideas. All good qualities for a prime minister. However, when he chats to patients, he is at times, painfully ill at ease, coming over as solemn and earnest when a smile or a joke is what's needed. I've filmed him so often that I no longer notice this awkwardness but my cameraman-the one who gets up close and personal on these jobs-describes today's encounter as **"awful."** -"Monday 12th May 2014"-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Went over to Nick's office for 1.30pm for a pre-Quad meeting. Danny said he had a word with Osborne yesterday about the Budget. Amusingly, George has proposed increasing the personal income tax allowance from £100 to £200-the first time the Tories have themselves proposed this. He is also considering cancelling the fuel duty rise...George is also talking about going further than the Low Pay Commission recommendation, by raising the minimum wage not just to the £6.70 level that the Commission are recommending, but all the way to £7. And in another move to try to steal Labour's clothes, he is proposing that we increase the free childcare allowance for three-and-four-year-olds from fifteen hours to twenty hours or even to twenty-five hours. Predictably, Osborne also wants something for the classic Tory voter-a savers package, which would basically be giving away more money for ISAs. And he is trying to shoot some UKIP foxes too, by talking about cutting hospital car parking charges! What George is doing is clever-proposing a whole series of things that he knows we will find it very difficult to resist. And trying to shoot the foxes of all of the Conservative Party's opponents.-"Wednesday 25th February 2015" The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Nick Clegg told me later that he had spoken to Cameron about the leaks and briefings against him in both childcare rations and Book Trust. He said he was blaming Michael, and in particular his adviser Dom Cummings- **"** **Get me the evidence on Cummings"** said Cameron, perking up. **"I would love to sack Cummings. Just get me the evidence."...** Cameron has agreed to have a meeting with Gove and (Jeremy) Heywood, in which he will threaten to bring in the police if there are further leaks. Michael is now endangering his own relationship with Cameron, who is apparently furious..As we were talking, the news came through that Cummings had leaked further internal DfE papers on free school meals to The World At One. I'm now going to have to waste a huge amount of time going through all the documentation to knock down Cummings's lunatic story. Very, very infuriating. Cummings has now also given on-the-record quote: **"Clegg has been lying about the announcement from the start to cover up his abuse of taxpayers' money for his personal ends. Gove was trying to safeguard taxpayers' money but Clegg ignored him. All the documents should be turned over to the Select Committee immediately..."** Absolutely extraordinary and unbelievable that this little shit is behaving in this way. A pack of lies....At 9.15 a.m. Michael phoned me, sounding defensive: **"David, I just don't know where to begin. Look, this is very difficult for me. Dom seems to be in a place where he thinks he's helping me. He often thinks he knows my interests better than I do, but I disagree with him. In fact, it's making our relationship difficult, No.10 is upset with me, and Henry Dimbleby is also fed up. But I do find this very difficult. Dom is an old friend of mine and it's difficult to control him. However, I must make clear that his position of universal infant school meals is not the same as mine. I will explain my position to Dom and ask him to desist."**_

_I responded bluntly: **"I understand that Dom is quite an independent-minded person, but frankly he's still your adviser. You have to take responsibility for this. If Matt Sanders (Lib Dem adviser) left the government and started briefing against everything you'd been doing in the DfE, you would be furious and you would hold Nick Clegg to account. You really have to get a grip on Cummings over this. In addition you need to communicate your support for the policy."** Michael said he did understand this and he would go back to Dom and try to stop his briefings, and at some stage he would write some kind of article in the newspapers giving his support for the policy...-"Wednesday 9th May 2012-Wednesday 7th May 2014-Thursday 8th May 2014-Friday 9th May 2014", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_At 11 a.m. I received the call that Michael was ready to see me. His private secretaries looked up nervously as I approached. Michael was in his office by himself. He looked up from his desk and said, **"Oh, hello, David"** -he was trying to calibrate the right tone and ending up somewhere between friendly and chilly. We sat down in Michael's leather sofas to the side of the desk. **"David, I really don't know where to start. Obviously there has been quite a lot of negative publicity over the weekend! The PM has apparently spoken to Nick Clegg this morning, and after that spoke to me and said how keen he is that we sort things out and make sure that the DfE doesn't become a dysfunctional department. Obviously, I am very supportive of the free school meals policy, but as we discussed last week it's very difficult to control Dom. But I am worried about all the things that have been said about free schools over the weekend, and I have to say that I feel that the whole thing is a bit disproportionate in that what we have had is a few negative stories from Dom, whereas what the Lib Dems seem to have done is the equivalent of a nuclear strike. While I can also understand why Nick and the Lib Dems might feel sore, there are some things that I feel sore about as well-including the position that Nick took on childcare rations, the fact that he constantly accuses me of being in favour of profit-making schools, also the attack on QTS and the fact that Nick constantly says rather rude things about me in the media, even though I am a fellow member of the government."**_

_I said, **"Look, I know that you and Nick are not necessarily ever going to love each other, and I'm certainly not expecting to get to the point where Dom and Nick can go on holiday together. But what Dom has been doing is appalling and unacceptable. I don't personally mind him saying that he doesn't agree with this use of money. I know that that was always his view. But what he must not do is lie. I have got here the Mail On Sunday interview that he gave this weekend and what he said about the origin of the policy, and it's just a pack of lies."** I then read out the relevant sections of the interview and challenged Michael to say whether they were right or wrong. I continued: **"I also can't understand your own position on this. You have always said that you have supported this policy, but you seem to have done precious little to stop Dom from trashing it...** " Michael said that he understood that and he was happy for us to discuss these matters behind the scenes. But he kept on emphasising that he couldn't control Dom Cummings. He said, **"Dom will be Dom. You know what he's like. I have spoken to Dom and I spoke to him last Friday, but it's very difficult to get him to do what you want-and as I said to you, I think he believes that he's helping me in some way, even though he isn't."** -"Monday 12th May 2014", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Speaking of bad spads, Dominic Cummings was still in the business of bilious briefing to the papers. Having left government in 2013, he could now put his name to his insults. I knew he was still dripping his poison into Michael's ear as well. I needed Michael in a top job, but I was beginning to think that a different, less high-profile role might be better for all of us. And he had planted the seed in my mind a year earlier. **"If you were ever to give me another job, I'd love to be chief whip"** he told me. His obsession with people and politics, all that passion and antagonism-perhaps they could be used to recharge the Whips' Office. Two weeks before the reshuffle I got him into the Downing Street flat and put it to him. **"I think you'll be brilliant at it. You've done four years at Education. All the big changes are made. I want you on the inner** **team."** He went away to think about it, talked to Sarah, and confirmed the next day that he would do it. I then described to him all my plans for the reshuffle, right down to the lowest junior minister. He was all **"Yes, do this...Oh, I wouldn't do that...Don't sack that person-sack this person."**_

_The next day, I was in Wantage, Oxfordshire, visiting the Williams Formula One factory when my plan hit the barriers. Michael emailed to say he had changed his mind. What had happened? I smelt Dominic Cummings, and totally flipped. Reshuffles fall apart if people go back on their word. This was a job Michael had suggested, that he had accepted, that he had started to do. I rang him and said, " **I don't accept your email. You have agreed to do this job. I've told you everything we're planning. I accept your withdrawal of the email, and I expect to speak to you later on today about how we are going to finalise the reshuffle."** I followed this with a text: **"You must realise that I divide the world into team players and wankers. You've always been a team player. Please don't become a wanker."..** More seriously, Michael Gove was devastated by what happened when his appointment was announced. None of us had properly focused on the fact that the chief whip only attends cabinet, rather than being a full member. To me, that was just semantics: Michael would be at the table for every discussion. The job also involved a pay cut, although I had offered Michael a flat in Admiralty House to help make up the difference, and so he could live closer to the Commons where he would be spending more time. But when it dawned fully on him, and others, that he'd be taking a £36,000 pay cut, it seemed like a demotion. Sarah Vine was furious. " **A shabby day's work which Cameron will live to regret"** she tweeted the next day, quoting a Max Hastings op-ed which, with the usual moderation the Daily Mail applies to things, described Michael's demotion as **"worse than a crime."** Appearances matter in politics, including to the people alongside you. I had created a strong team, but tensions and unhappiness were on the rise, and the long-term consequences would be very serious indeed.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Ed's growing political pragmatism, like David's, had not gone unnoticed by their Marxist father. In 1993, Tony Benn recorded in his diary, **"Ralph Miliband came for about an hour and a half today...He was saying how his sons say to him, "Oh, Dad, how would you do that? Would it work? What are your positive proposals?" I said, "Well, it's the same with my sons." He was very relieved to hear that. I think he thought he was very out of date."**_ _- Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Over breakfast Will tells me that he's just caught up with The Thick Of It..He has been devouring whole series in a single sitting. " **You're in it a lot, Dad"** he says._

_**"Am I?"** If that is the case, I have genuinely forgotten._

_Looking ever so slightly proud of his father, he quotes an inept Cabinet minister in an early series: " **There's more to life than drinks parties at the Foreign Office and having Nick Robinson's number on your fucking Blackberry."** Will hesitates before adding " **And then there's that other bit..."**_

_A suppressed memory slowly begins to surface. The memory of a parting shot to his team from Malcolm Tucker, the foul-mouthed, testosterone-fuelled Glaswegian spin doctor played by Peter Capaldi. **"I'm away to wipe my arse on pictures of Nick Robinson. I'm getting good at giving him a quiff."**_

_There is absolutely nothing I can say. Harry, our youngest, grins.-"Tuesday 10th June 2014" -Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_In the meantime, here we go again. Hidden cameras, journalists posing as company executives keen to get their views heard in Whitehall and Westminster and former ministers who should know better boasting about who they know and what they can find out-for the right fee. Channel 4's Dispatches have teamed up with the Telegraph to expose the murky world of lobbying, or **"cash for access",** as everyone prefers to call it. No money changes hands, no access is secured, no secrets are revealed but the prospect of all three taking place is there for everyone to see. Messrs (Geoff) Hoon and (Stephen) Byers fell for it five years ago. This time it's Labour's Jack Straw and the Tories' Malcolm Rifkind. The best clips have been released in time for BBC News At 10 to ensure a full news cycle of outrage. Just like the expenses scandal, which was drip-fed to television night after night and which, whisper who dares, we-I, damn it-did too little to question or contextualize...._

_**Piccadilly line tube** _

_**"Scandal? Really?"** I e-mail the newsroom....It's back to the **"cash-for-access"** scandal. I have yet to hear Rifkind's and Straw's defence of themselves detailed on the Today programme but I have had a thorough read of the Telegraph's story, which reveals that Straw, who is retiring as an MP in a few weeks' time, told a firm he would not be able to work for them now but could once he'd left the Commons. He did boast to the **"Chinese company executives"** he was meeting about how he'd helped companies to change policy **"under the radar",** but that was in Brussels and Kiev, not Westminster or Whitehall. Rifkind bragged that he knew all the ambassadors in London and went on to talk of all the things he could find out about. None of them, though, was really private. Not much of a scandal there. What is outraging people is that two ex-foreign secretaries should be naive enough to meet representatives of a business they did nothing to check out, even though it purported to be Chinese and should, therefore, have rung alarm bells; to talk of how they could earn £5,000 a day, well over two months' wages for the average earner, and to show off about who they knew and what they could do. In short, they may not be guilty of breaching any rules but they look bang to rights. So what should we report? The impression or the reality? Not my problem today. I'm not on duty.-"Monday 23rd February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_**Home, the kitchen** _

_Will he stay or will he go? Malcolm Rifkind tried anger and defiance where Jack Straw deployed contrition and regret. A scan of this morning's papers makes it absolutely clear which has worked best. Every interview Rifkind did yesterday was another nail in the coffin of a forty-year political career. One line in particular stands out: his insistence that he is **"entitled"** to earn more than his MP's salary to keep his earnings in line with other similarly qualified professionals. I text a well-placed Tory for guidance on what might happen next. The reply is redolent of a party that still thinks of itself as being of the officer class: **"He'll be handed a tumbler of whisky and a revolver and invited to do the honourable thing."**_

_**Victoria Line tube** _

_As my train rolls into Oxford Circus a message flashes up on the iPad. Sir Malcom has drunk the whisky and fired the revolver. He has resigned as chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, due to meet today, and won't stand again for his seat._

_**A Westminster eatery** _

_It is one thing to pull off a murder. The art, though, is to make it look like a suicide. So says my lunchtime guest from Team Cameron. Rifkind has taken his own political life after being given the clearest possible hint that the PM planned to finish him off, using a party disciplinary inquiry to administer the fatal blow. Though one faction at Number 10 worried that all this was mightily unfair on a man with four decades of public service, another argued that it was better to act brutally now than to hang on day after day, trying in vain to head off the inevitable. We did that with Maria Miller, I was told. As I emerge from lunch Sir Malcolm is emerging from his ISC meeting. **"Did you do anything wrong?"** he's asked._

_**"No"** he replies, before admitting **"errors of judgement."** You can say that again.-"Tuesday 24th February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_**Daily Politics** studio_

_It would have been easy for Ed Miliband to have shied away from raising the issue of lobbying. After all, one of his own has been caught in the latest media sting. However, he sees it as another chance to define himself as the champion of a new kind of politics. Six times in all he invites David Cameron to join him in the lobbies tonight in voting for a proposal to ban MPs from having second jobs. Six times Cameron tries but fails to hide behind the suggestion that Miliband will only ban certain second jobs (Tory ones) and not positions as trade-union officials. Problem one with this line of argument is that there are no MPs who are also trade-union officials. Problem two is that Miliband instantly offers to include such jobs in the ban Labour are proposing. But it is clear where Cameron's real sympathies lie when he effectively endorses the warning by Sir Peter Tapsell, the father of the house (its longest-serving member) and a Tory grandee with a fine aristocratic lisp, that imposing restrictions on outside earnings would limit membership of the Commons to **"inhewitors of substantial fortunes or to wich spouses or to obsessive cwackpots or to those who are unemployable anywhere else."** -"Wednesday 25th February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_I have decided to face the news alone. Pippa offered to come with me and I feel a little guilty that I asked her not to. I said I wanted to be able to focus on the detail of what I was being told but the truth is I am trying to shield myself from emotion and approach this as just another briefing to be listened to, noted down and subbed before passing on to others. That way, perhaps it won't really seem to be about me, my life. My possible early death._

_**"I've got as long as you need"** says Mike. So much for this being good news.._

_This will be a day for breaking the news. Last night Pippa and I agreed a plan. There is much comfort in drawing up plans. We'll tell the boys over dinner tonight, go and see Alice at Oxford tomorrow and visit my mum the next day...Over dinner with the boys Pippa and I work hard to make normal conversation; to laugh before we break the serious news. Will and Harry listen and seem to take it all in. They don't say a lot-they are teenage boys, after all. Kids take their lead from their parents, I think. If we deal with it calmly and rationally, then, I hope, they'll deal with it calmly and rationally too. There'll be no avoiding the "C" word, no silly euphemisms, no secrets, but equally no panic, no self-pity, no funereal tones...It's a bore and a challenge but many people have been through far, far worse.-"Wednesday 25th February 2015-Thursday 26th February 2015" -Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Last night went well, so why am I this bloody terrified about today? We're in Oxford, about to buy lunch for Alice and tell her my news. But first Pippa is having coffee with an old schoolfriend. I lie down on a bench by the river and stare into the sky. What will I do if Alice cries? What will I do if she asks questions I can't or don't want to answer? **"So, Dad, you might be cured, but what if you're not?"** Am I kidding everyone else that I'm going to be fine because I'm kidding myself? I text Pippa: **"Black Dog has come."** She arrives to hold my hand and cheer me up before we meet Alice. And guess what? It goes just as well as last night. No tears. No unanswerable questions. Concern, sympathy, smiles, and then chat about college life. Just what the doctor ordered...._

_We're barely on the train before a text arrives from The Sunday Times. The press release has not yet been issued and already they know every detail. So, my worry about word leaking out was not paranoia. It's a quiet news day, apparently, and this story is going to lead page 3. Bloody hell. Another text instructs me to turn on my iPad and watch the news channel. I should be breaking the news. Instead I am breaking news. My God, this is surreal...Texts continue to pour in. The messages I've had from Robert Peston, whose beloved wife Sian died of lung cancer, have been among the nicest and most supportive. Few people call. One who does is Ed Miliband. He is kind, generous and thoughtful and sounds genuinely shocked.-"Friday 27th February 2015"-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_GB was looking very jowly and overweight again. Sheehan asked him whether he liked or disliked Cameron. GB said he did not like him. He felt he was not a nice man. I said it was more that GB resented the idea he wanted to oust him. He needed to be a bit more gracious towards him...The official was pretending to be Cameron and when he said-which he did three times- **"Why didn't the PM even mention the deficit reduction plan to his speech in the conference?",** GB snapped back, **"I did, why are you saying that?"** After the third time I said, **for God's sake, if an official can get under your skin, how easy is it for Cameron to do it?** GB said he hated the sense of public schoolboy entitlement that Cameron exuded. He went off on one; **how have we got a situation where we made the right calls on the crisis and the Tories made the wrong calls but we get no credit and they get such an easy ride?** I said he had to stop thinking about the media, and also stop worrying about Cameron.-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Once again, Brown and his advisers felt they had been misled by Blair. At one stage, the Chancellor arrived at Number 10 in a rage, for a meeting with the Prime Minister. **"When are you going to fuck off and give me a date?"** he is said to have shouted at Blair. **"I want the job now."** Every member of the Chancellor's inner circle was livid at this latest **"betrayal"** , not just the traditionally confrontational Ed Balls but the normally polite and placid Ed Miliband too. And it was Sally Morgan, the Blair aide who had replaced Anji Hunter as the Prime Minister's gatekeeper, who was to be on the receiving end of a rare explosion from Ed. One afternoon, he stormed into her office in Number 10 demanding to know when Blair was planning to quit. **"Why haven't you packed up yet to go? There's a deal and he's got to go."** Morgan denied all knowledge of such a deal- **"I don't know anything of the sort"** -prompting an enraged Ed to cite the Prescott dinner from the previous November. It was a new and tougher side to the emissary from Planet Fuck. A stunned Morgan later relayed the incident to Blair: " **You're not going to believe this. I've had Ed Miliband round telling me to pack up."** An irritated Blair then told Prescott who **"went mad"** and called Brown to complain. But that wasn't the end of the matter. Ed is said to have then rung Morgan and yelled: **"That was supposed to be a private conversation."**_

_**"I was surprised because Ed was unpleasant and aggressive (towards Morgan)"** recalls a former aide to Blair. **"It was all extremely tense and tetchy."** Friends say Ed was genuinely upset and angry on Brown's behalf; he felt his boss had been led down the garden path by his Downing Street neighbour. There may have been an element of personal frustration too: he had returned from Harvard to serve in a Brown administration. But Blair wasn't budging from Number 10. Prior to the Sally Morgan row, observes a close friend of Ed's, **"people might have been seduced into thinking that Ed was some sort of pushover or softie but he actually has strongly held beliefs that he will argue and fight for."** One of those (Brownite) beliefs was that the Chancellor had every right to insist the Prime Minister stand aside. **"I thought it was time for Tony to go"** Ed later admitted to a close friend. _

_Ed's aides now say they do not **"recognise"** the description of Ed being angry and rude in the incident with Morgan. But a friend of Ed who worked with him in the Treasury says that the account of his confrontation with Blair's gatekeeper is **"absolutely accurate."** It is consistent with other flashes of ruthlessness shown by Ed in subsequent years.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Brown grew increasingly agitated that nothing was being said about the handover. **"All conversation stopped"** says an aide at the centre of Brown's circle." **It all went suspiciously silent. Tony couldn't bring himself to tell Gordon directly. He couldn't explain what he was doing."** Brown came round to Number 10 to try to get an answer. **"Gordon was just losing it. He was behaving like a belligerent teenager. Just standing in the middle of the office shouting: "When are you going to fucking go?"**_

_Members of the Chancellor's entourage tried to take things into their own hands. Ed Miliband was always regarded as the least thuggish of the Chancellor's crew, but now the iron had entered his soul. He stormed in to see Sally Morgan. " **Why are you still sitting here? Why haven't you packed up to go?"** demanded Miliband. **"There's a deal and he's got to go. There was a deal. Prescott was the witness to it."** Morgan claimed to have never heard of any such deal: " **I don't accept what you're saying is true.".**.She went into the den to tell Blair: **"You're not going to believe this. I've had Ed Miliband telling me to pack up."** Blair contacted Prescott, who **"went mad"** because he didn't want to be dragged into it. Miliband phoned Morgan soon afterwards. " **How dare you tell people?"** he shouted at her. " **That was supposed to be a private conversation."**_

_According to David Hill: **"It happened quite regularly. You'd**_ **** _**have numbers of Brown's people coming round to Number 10 saying:"You shouldn't be here any longer."** Brown's camp were becoming demented in anticipation of what they saw as an incipient betrayal.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Alastair Campbell and Philip Gould tried to cast themselves as peacemakers. They cajoled Blair and Brown to agree to talks about repairing their relationship and working towards a handover of power. Jonathan Powell refused to have anything to do with it, predicting that it was futile. Campbell and Gould began to sense that he was right when Ed Balls was brazenly rude to the Prime Minister. More shocking in its way was the behaviour of Ed Miliband. Blairites had regarded him as the most reasonable member of Brown's court. At Number 10, the other Ed was known as " **The Emissary From Planet Fuck."** To the Prime Minister's face and more than once, Miliband demanded: " **What is to be gained by you staying on for another six months?"** Blair turned on Campbell and Gould for embroiling him in an exercise he found hateful. The talks were fruitless when all trust between the two principals was incinerated. They collapsed._

_Bust-ups in the den were now routine. Brown would thunder round to Number 10, the door on Blair's study would close and yelling at dispatch box levels began almost immediately. **"The noise was so loud you could hear the screaming and shouting on the other side of the door"** says one member of the Cabinet. Shortly after breakfast, officials and advisers held an 8.30 am planning meeting in the Cabinet Room. It was not unusual for these meetings to take place to the background noise of high-decibel swearing coming from the nearby den. Blair and Brown were rowing so violently that sometimes the words were audible to the staff in the Cabinet Room. **"The shouting was so loud you could hear it. Everyone would be pretending to focus on what we were discussing and the entire room would be earwigging the conversation next door."** -The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_George Osborne I knew far better. George had arrived in Parliament the same year as me, 2001. We had led for our respective parties on the Child Trust Fund Bill...I learned while serving on the Bill committee that George was bright, sharp and amusing, with a mischievous sense of humour. He also has an extraordinary strategic and tactical understanding of British politics-not just Conservative politics, but that of the Labour and Liberal Democrat parties too. I never made the mistake of underestimating him, as some of my other colleagues did, and was not surprised when he turned out to be the first Conservative shadow Chancellor to get the measure of Gordon Brown and to really get under his skin. -22 Days In May: The Birth Of The Lib Dem-Conservative Coalition, David Laws_

_George must have decided that there were better ways of forging partnerships between us, because in the summer recess of 2006 he asked to see me in my office in Westminster, unexpectedly and at short notice. I agreed...George arrived in my office on the fifth floor of 1 Parliament Street and with very little introduction plunged into his proposition: **"I have come here with David Cameron's agreement to say that if you will join the Conservative Party we would like to offer you a place in the shadow cabinet, and then-when we win, which we will-the Cabinet."**_

_I was pretty stunned, but knew this was not an offer to leave hanging in the air. **"I am going to have to decline that, however flattering" I** said. " **The truth is that I am a liberal, not a Conservative. I believe passionately in creating a fairer country, but I happen to believe this will be done through liberal means and not by big government solutions."**_

_George clearly thought I was stark raving mad. **"But don't you actually want to be in government doing something, rather than spending a lifetime in opposition?"** he asked._

_**"I don't expect to spend a lifetime in opposition"** I said. " **I think that Labour will lose the next election, but I don't think you'll have enough seats to form a government. At that stage there may well be some sort of coalition."** We had a long discussion on the difference between liberalism and Conservatism, and where we both saw the three political parties positioned. He gave no ground and neither did I. We both agreed to keep our discussions confidential and so they remained for a good six months...Now, suddenly, the prospect of being in the same government as George, but representing different parties, seemed remarkably real. We must both have seen the irony of the situation, though neither of us mentioned it.-22 Days In May: The Birth Of The Lib Dem-Conservative Coalition, David Laws_

_**"I find Miliband difficult to read" s** aid Nick later. " **Cameron just blurts everything out, and is totally open. There is something very cautious, almost secretive, about Miliband."** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition, 2010-2015, David Laws_

_**“Ed (Balls) and Yvette (Cooper) are a real problem, in terms of allowing Ed to do what he wants to do”** complains one shadow Cabinet minister. **“They’re very narrowly focused on the day-to-day, inter-party politics.”** Balls and Cooper, for example, have been accused of trying to dilute Ed’s responsible capitalism agenda; the shadow Chancellor is keen to resist spending cuts but less keen to rein in the banks…Meanwhile, Balls, say his friends, wants to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the only way to achieve this goal is unequivocally and wholeheartedly to support Ed Miliband and ensure he becomes Prime Minister. Thus their interests are also aligned. Not everyone in the Labour movement, however, is willing to give Balls the benefit of the doubt. **“I just can’t believe that Ed Balls doesn’t want to be leader of the Labour Party”** says an influential Labour figure and former Cabinet minister. In January 2012, in the midst of Ed’s turbulent period, a right-wing paper even accused Balls and Cooper of plotting to undermine their leader over a pasta dinner for MPs at their north London home- **“Lasagna-gate.” “Ed talked about a new style of politics and then put his entire machine in the hands of Michael Dugher and Tom Watson”** says a former Downing Street official who served under both Blair and Brown. Dugher and Watson, both of whom supported Balls’s failed leadership bid, now serve in the shadow Cabinet as, respectively, office minister and deputy party chair. Balls and his outriders have **“filled a vacuum”** in the Labour high command, says the ex-official. **“Ed Balls has got a sentinel at every single door in Ed’s office, in every corridor of (Norman Shaw South)** ” says a source familiar with the Labour leader’s set-up. **“He’s man-marking Ed Miliband.”** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_He (Ed) re-emerged in spectacular style in January 2009 for what a former government insider calls an "epic" row with Brown-the first of many-on the proposed third runway at Heathrow. Four months before Ed's appointment as Climate Change Secretary, in June 2008, David Cameron-trying to emphasise his **"vote blue, go green"** message-had ruled out a third runway under a Conservative government. Cameron's pledge only hardened Brown's own instinctive support for the runway-always keen on his **"dividing lines"** , the Prime Minister saw it as an opportunity to portray Labour and not the Tories as the party of business. Much has been written about Ed's stance on the Heathrow runway, including plenty of speculation that he almost resigned over the matter. David Muir and Douglas Alexander were alarmed to find themselves, on a trip to Washington, bombarded with calls from anxious Number 10 officials believing Ed would **"walk" i** n January 2009. **"It was interesting for us all to watch"** says one former Downing Street insider. **"Ed pushed Gordon fucking hard."** Advisers to both Ed and Brown say they never heard him use the word "resignation", but he did tell Gavin Kelly, the Brown aide who was handling the runway issue, **"I will not do this deal until I get much more",** that is, policy concessions. Ed's view throughout the negotiating process was that the expansion of Heathrow would make it near-impossible for the government to implement its pledge to reduce carbon emissions by 2050. Another Downing Street aide says Ed's strategy was **"to really dig in and make some big demands. At each stage, he would demand more. And each time you thought he would cave, he wouldn't."** Ed's obdurate approach came as a shock to Number 10's permanent secretary, Jeremy Heywood, who told Brown the matter needed to be resolved. **"Why is this new minister holding up the wheels of government like this?"** Heywood was overheard asking a colleague. Meanwhile on one occasion the Prime Minister was **"livid"** , according to an aide. He shouted of Ed, **"Get him on the phone. This is a total betrayal."**_

_Kelly says today: **"Ed and I had a very difficult, very acrimonious row over Heathrow when I was dealing with him at Number 10. We really took it to the limit on that; I didn't know how that was going to end up, to be honest, but he played hard, very aggressively...We were right up against the deadline and he didn't blink. It was probably the most difficult negotiation that I can remember having with a Cabinet minister. He got a lot more than anyone thought he was going to get."** The reality is that although the thought had crossed Ed's mind, he never came anywhere close to going through with resignation-or even threatening to do so. **"It would have been ludicrous to resign after just three months in the job"** he told friends later. Instead, while his special adviser Polly Billington briefed the press, especially The Guardian, that Ed was **"unhappy",** he took the only route he believed was open to him: Ed " **talked truth to power"** as his aides put it now, but in a private and not in a public setting. **"There were blazing rows"** says a former Cabinet minister. Ed's stubbornness in meetings-both one-to-one and Cabinet-shocked Brown. It also infuriated Ed Balls and Peter Mandelson, both of whom sided with the business community and argued that the move would create jobs-with the latter reportedly having banged his head on the Cabinet table in frustration (a claim he has since denied to friends.) Mandelson did, however, lend his considerable weight to support the position of Geoff Hoon, the Transport Secretary, who took it upon himself to push the case for the runway inside government and voice considerable frustration with Ed's blocking tactics on behalf of other pro-business Cabinet ministers. Anonymous quotes started appearing in the press accusing Ed of having **"gone native."..** The Climate Change Secretary's chief ally, however, was Hilary Benn, the Environment Secretary. Journalists and MPs spoke of a " **Milibenn"** tendency in Cabinet. At one meeting of ministers, Benn repeatedly and loudly interrupted Hoon's defence of the government's position. " **Stop heckling me"** Hoon barked back._

_A senior official describes another tense meeting with Hoon, Heywood and Ed. **"Jeremy clearly felt Geoff had given enough. But Ed refused to leave the room until he had a meeting with Gordon. He had gone red, almost like a child. He was clearly very emotional. Jeremy thought he was being unreasonable and puerile. But I don't think Ed gave a toss. He wanted concessions-and he won."** Supporters of Ed see the row over Heathrow as his coming of age in the Cabinet. He did not resign but in the end did win a series of concessions out of the row with Brown. Aviation's contribution to carbon emissions was to decline and airlines using the new runway would be required to use the newest, least-polluting aircraft...More crucially still for Ed, in return for agreeing to the compromise on Heathrow, he persuaded Brown to agree to commit to working extra hard for a positive outcome at the Copenhagen climate summit later that year. Ed had learned to negotiate with Brown while working with him at close quarters at the Treasury; he knew how to extract concessions from his old boss. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

* * *

_Just after 10pm on the night of Wednesday 12 May (2010), Ed Miliband left his home in Dartmouth Park to make the ten-minute drive to his childhood home in Primrose Hill, where he and his brother David had grown up, and where the latter now lived. Earlier that day, David had announced that he was standing as Labour leader...Only the future leader's partner Justine was in the house to see him off. Minutes earlier, two of Ed's closest friends, Stewart Wood and Gavin Kelly, had left the couple in peace. Kelly went home while Wood made his way to a nearby Indian restaurant, the Monsoon. He would wait there, like a crutch of support, for Ed to emerge from his nerve-wracking rendezvous with his elder brother. David's two children were asleep upstairs when their uncle arrived at the house, but his wife, the musician Louise Shackleton, was still awake. The brothers, however, spoke alone...Or was it? The tragedy of the Miliband brothers, and the consequence of their bitter struggle for the Labour leadership during the summer of 2010, is that today the two men cannot even agree when it happened: the moment that Ed Miliband confronted his older brother David with his decision to run against him for the leadership of the Labour Party. Indeed it is remarkable that in the face of this detailed and persuasive account...offered by Ed and his allies...David is emphatic: there was no meeting that week between the two brothers. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

_He was one of Ed's oldest political friends; the two of them had gone on joint holidays together. Since 2000, they had vacationed together in Scotland, France and the United States. In recent years, their partners-Justine and Douglas's wife Jackie-had also become close. But from the moment Douglas went to work for David, he and his wife are said to have cut off ties with Ed and Justine. Ed's desire to be leader meant his personal relationships were taking a battering. One or two allies of Ed have yet to fully forgive Alexander for his alleged betrayal: " **Douglas used to slag off David to Ed. Justine was particularly pissed off when he went off to chair David's campaign."..** Ed privately told friends that he believed Alexander had defected to David's camp for two main reasons: a combination of annoyance and envy that a younger man than him was standing for leader (Alexander is talented and ambitious himself-and two years older than Ed); and a belief that a younger brother should not challenge his elder brother. Alexander, for his part, was said to have privately believed that Ed's desire to challenge David had its roots in a long-standing sibling rivalry, and told a friend that while brotherly rivalry was fine, the Labour leadership should not be " **sacrificed"** at the altar of Ed's desire to beat his brother._

_The point is a highly powerful one. If it is true that Ed's challenge-with all the grief and ongoing fallout that it entailed-was the result more of sibling jostling or resentment than political vision then Labour will have paid a very high price for the strange dynamic between the Miliband brothers. Some David supporters suspect Ed's motives to be more personal than political. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

_Domestically, Justine is undoubtedly the organiser and always has been-she handled their move from his flat in Primrose Hill to a spacious house in Dartmouth Park (and as the press has been keen to point out, it is her name on the house deeds.) A friend comments: " **The house looks imposing, but it's not glamorous, and it's not a very swanky neighbourhood.".**.A Labour MP, however, who has visited their home says it is **"a family house, but you're not quite sure Ed is the creator of it. It feels like a house he inhabits which has been made by his wife."** Asked by a journalist in 2010 what was on the walls of his new house, Ed replied **"Something white."..**.Justine was one of those who supported his decision to stand-" **Life's an adventure. And you've got to seize the day."** -and told him he had nothing to be guilty about. Since David's defeat at the hands of Ed in September 2010, Justine herself is believed to have fallen out with David's wife Louise who, only a few years earlier, she had been " **in awe of"** over the latter's musical prowess and career success as a violinist. **"Louise has been nasty towards Ed and Justine can't handle that"** says a friend of the couple.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

_In December 2010, David and Louise Miliband hosted a birthday party at their home in Edis Street for their elder son, Isaac, who had just turned six. But there were some crucial absentees. Ed did not attend the party. Nor did Justine or the pair's two children, Daniel, and their then new baby Samuel. Ed's family live a ten-minute drive away from David's. Guests who attended the party were unclear as to whether Ed was invited and declined the invitation, or was not asked to begin with. It remains a mystery..For friends of the Milibands, Ed's absence confirmed one of their worst fears: that the relationship between David and Ed had so deteriorated that it had impacted on the entire family. This, of course, had been their mother Marion's biggest worry, and she was said to have aged by several years since the summer of 2010...The once tight-knit Miliband clan chose not to spend Christmas together either. Despite Ed optimistically telling the press he was looking forward to spending it with his brother-and quipping that "no peacekeeping forces will be needed"-David headed off to America to spend the holiday with his in-laws. The same thing happened again for Christmas 2011. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

_David and Louise (Miliband) came round first thing with the boys. DM spoke of the government as though he were not really part of it. **"They're hopeless. There's no attack. There's no intellectual grip."** He said the Nick Brown school of politics had the upper hand, which made for a poisonous atmosphere. He felt even if DC (David Cameron) was not great he was not so bad that people could not see him as PM. He was articulate and he was presentable and not daft. Polls bad. Economic stuff bad. Louise said she thought it was all over. DM seemed to think likewise. He could not see where the forward agenda was coming from. Louise was very down on Ed, said that whenever there was a family event they tended to avoid politics, because they felt he was on a different tack. Louise was sharp, and very ambitious for David, perhaps more so than he was for himself. Fiona felt he would never go for GB, even when it was obvious someone needed to.-"Sunday 1st February 2008" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_David was away but Louise was there, looking pretty tense I thought. It must be a bit of a nightmare for them at the moment. The GB thing, and also the Ed thing if it was true-and she was sure it was-that he felt he might have a go if David did...The situation with Ed M was interesting. The Guardianistas had been talking him up and Ed was definitely thinking that if there was a leadership election after a general election defeat he might fancy his chances. DM said he had been levelling with him about his own views and for two years had been trying to persuade him GB had to go. But he was also sure Ed would not betray him to GB. I was not so sure about that. He was seeing him tonight. They had to sort it out. -Tuesday 24th November 2009-Sunday 6th December 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Then we set off for Chevening. None of the kids wanted to come so it was F(iona) and me. Ben Evans and Amanda were coming, too, and Ben was clearly seeing it as a chance to advise DM on how to get himself in a challenging position-literally if pre-election, less so if after an assumed (by him and most others) defeat. We arrived as the boys (David Miliband's sons) were finishing their tea. Did the usual **"What did you all do for Xmas?"** routine and it was not long before we were picking up on the negative vibes about Ed M, especially from Louise. When she and Fiona were giving the boys a bath later, she was apparently even more scathing. Ed had been busy cultivating the Guardianistas so that when Copenhagen failed he was somehow seen as a success....His brother Ed was organising at least at the media level and that was helping him to build support in the party. We sort of cut to the chase later on and I said what I thought, which Louise said afterwards was unbelievably depressing. I said David was seen as able and competent, and in many ways an attractive figure. But he did not do the touchy-feely stuff well-his brother was better-and there was a feeling he did not like getting his hands dirty. .._

_There would be a moment where he and Ed M were going to have to decide whether they went for it or not. **"I will book Granita's"** I said. **"It's not there any more"** said Amanda. DM was nodding along to a lot of what I said. So was Louise, especially when I said he needed far stronger people round him, and he needed a network of supporters and message carriers round the country._

_I asked what contact he had made with the new candidates. He said they were being invited in for a chat on how foreign policy could help them in their campaigns. I said you can bet every one of them will have had a letter and an offer of support from Balls and Ed M. Don't forget that while we developed our political skills under TB, they developed their campaigning skills under GB. So-Balls in particular-it was about the black arts. DM was right not to get into that, but he did need-without being disloyal-to build a better sense of who he was and what he would do. I felt if GB fell under a bus he would probably get it but if it was after a defeat, it was not so sure. He had to really want it and have the operation to go for it if Ed M was getting into a better position. He nodded at that too. Fiona asked if they could envisage running against each other. He said not. I said **don't rule it out, at least to yourself.** Louise looked a bit lost...It was also going to be very rough at the personal level if he and Ed were set at odds. It seemed pretty inevitable to me.-"Tuesday 29th December 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat, Alastair Campbell_

_Then came the key, and provocative, admission: **“But just as I support the mission in Afghanistan as a necessary response to terrorism, I’ve got to be honest with you about the lessons of Iraq. Iraq was an issue that divided our party and our country. Many sincerely believed that the world faced a real threat. I criticise nobody faced with making the toughest of decisions and I honour our troops who fought, and died, there. But I do believe that we were wrong-wrong to take Britain to war-and we need to be honest about that. Wrong because that war was not a last resort, because we did not build sufficient alliances and because we undermined the United Nations.”** Referring to Barack Obama, Ed declared that **“America has drawn a line under Iraq, and so must we.”**_

_As Ed soaked up the applause from a Labour Party thirsty for so long to move on from the foreign policy disaster, he had no idea what had happened to his left. In an exchange that with the help of the media’s lip-reading skills would soon be all over the airwaves, overshadowing the speech, David Miliband had engaged in an extraordinary exchange with Harriet Harman. When Ed first referred to Iraq as **“wrong”,** he had received prolonged applause from the audience and from some-but far from all-of the senior Labour politicians on the platform. One of those clapping was Harriet Harman. David Miliband had looked on blank-faced during Ed’s Iraq passage. Now he turned to a grinning Harman and said: **“Why are you clapping? You voted for it.”** Harman did not falter, kept smiling and replied: **“I’m clapping because I’m supporting him.”** At the time, nobody actually listening to the speech on the floor was aware of this brief dispute, and the moment quickly passed. But it would have major implications for the future of the Labour shadow cabinet…._

_Speculation was feverish over whether David would stand for the shadow Cabinet, and therefore serve under his younger brother. But most of those who knew David could sense he would not. After the Harman incident, now playing big on the rolling news, Lisa Tremble told a member of Ed’s team that such episodes were evidence of why he could not stay on. David’s instinct was to get out of it all. His wife Louise was determined that he should do so. He was still in shock, and needed time to recharge his batteries. It would be damaging to both Ed and him for his every move to be monitored by the media for signs of disloyalty or dissent in the way it had during Ed’s speech. The one positive aspect of the whole sorry business was that he could spend some time with his wife and two young sons after a long, gruelling and bitter campaign against his brother. After brief deliberation, he informed Ed that he was set to stand down. Reflecting his unwillingness to acknowledge the rift between them, Ed urged him to reconsider: he had wanted David as his shadow Chancellor. But it was to no avail.- Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_In the final weeks of the Labour leadership contest, Marion decided to fly to New York and visit her sister Hadessa, in order to get away from the media scrum in London. At around the same time, Ralph's old friend and colleague Leo Panitch arrived in New York, from his home in Toronto, to speak at a book launch for the social theorist David Harvey. Panitch had a few moments to talk alone with Marion, who was in the audience, and had come to the front to meet him before the event began. She asked Panitch whether he had spoken to Ed and what he had heard about the campaign's latest twists and turns. Panitch was impressed at her resilience; Fleet Street photographers had been camped outside her sister's doorstep in New York, trying to get a shot of her. She was **"under siege".**_

_**"You must be proud of them"** Panitch said to Marion, referring to the fact that her two sons were the frontrunners for the leadership of the Labour Party. **"Proud?"** she replied. **"What do you mean, Leo? One is not proud of adults, one is proud of children. And if they'd asked my advice, I would have told them not to get into this ridiculous game."** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

* * *

_I wonder how deeply David gets involved in Cefinn. **"He'll definitely give me feedback"** Samantha says. **"He likes very simple things; too fussy or anything asymmetric he can't deal with at all"** she adds, laughing. Eldest daughter Nancy looks to have inherited the artistic gene. **"She sews her own clothes"** says Samantha, **"she'll appear in my cast-off trousers that reemerge as a skirt and boob tube. She's very good."** -Town & Country House Magazine_

* * *

_"Every time Grandma S read Jude's and my palms, she'd tell us that we had enough jealousy in our lines to ruin our lives ten times over. I know she's right about this. Whenever I draw Jude and me with see-through skin, there are always rattlesnakes in our bellies. I only have a few. Jude had seventeen at last count."- I'll Give You The Sun, Jandy Nelson_

_""Remember that time we watched the Kentucky Derby?"_

_"Yeah, uh, why?"_

_"Did you notice the racehorses had these companion ponies that didn't leave their sides?"_

_"I guess."_

_"Well, I think that was us, me and Bails."" -The Sky Is Everywhere, Jandy Nelson_

_The first time I heard a dirty joke, I nearly went catatonic. I was nine years old and playing with the daughter of one of my grown-up costars. When she asked if I wanted to hear a dirty joke, I assumed she was going to tell me the same punchline Paul Reubens had told me when we worked on Matilda: "A white horse fell in a mud puddle."..Instead, she told me one involving a little boy, his grown-up teacher, and the punch line "That's not my finger." I had a full-on panic attack. It was hard to accept that sex wasn't just something bad people did, and it obviously wasn't something just men did, either. Every time I looked at a pregnant woman, I knew what she had been up to a few months earlier. Even my beloved nanny, Shoshanna, had done it...She tried to mute (the show) every time they asked something that was "too old" for us, but I heard enough. When the host asked "So have you ever gotten down to business on a kitchen floor?" I ran out of the room crying. What she had done was against my religion, my own pieced-together theology. Premarital sex was a sin, and a big one, and big sins meant you wouldn't go to Heaven. What if the Christians were right and Hell really existed?_

_I worried for Shoshanna's soul until pop culture saved the day: I saw "Like A Virgin" on Pop-Up Video and learned that more than 90 per cent of women had premarital sex. They couldn't all be kept out of Heaven. That just seemed like a waste of otherwise perfectly good souls. Still, sex was dirty and corrupting, and I was going to be one of the 10 per cent who stayed pure.-"The Junior Anti-Sex League", Where Am I Now?, Mara Wilson_

_You were at the stage when you played with dolls. Mom said I used to do that, too, although I only remember dismembering mine and cutting off all their hair. Sometimes I would catch Mom watching you wrap your fake baby's arm in a cast, and it was like a storm cloud passed over her face-she was probably thinking that chances were you'd never have a real baby, mixed with feeling relief that you wouldn't have to know what it was like to watch your own kid break a million bones, like she did. -Handle With Care, Jodi Picoult_

_""What's it like?" she asked...."Being you."_

_It was truth-telling day. It was the sacred, truth-telling place, that's what she'd said._

_"Shitty. Scary. Hard."_

_"That's what I figured."" -Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

* * *

"Ready to go?" Michael claps David on the shoulder, a little awkwardly-Michael's not one for hearty gestures.

"Yeah." It only takes David a moment to glance up with a grin. "Pretty much."

He's not technically lying. He's ready to go and face Miliband across the dispatch box, certainly. But. It's hardly the same as the last time they did it.

God, it was only two weeks ago that his and Miliband's mouths hadn't touched _once._

He glances up at Michael, feeling a sudden pang of protectiveness. George might well have raised an eyebrow at some of the things he's seen happen between him and Miliband. But Michael-David's fairly sure Michael wouldn't have a clue. Hell, he's fairly sure Michael wouldn't even try to find out if he thought David wouldn't want him to.

There'd been a time when David had thought that might not be the case. But now that Cummings has gone, he and Michael are back to normal, steadier, certainly. Things have been a hell of a lot easier with Nick, too.

Thinking of Nick, though, makes David see him standing in that doorway again. He feels a brief jab of guilt and then feels his stomach swoop once again at the thought of facing Miliband across the chamber.

It's been three days since his last phone call with Miliband. In those three days, he's seen Miliband twice.

On Monday, Ed had dropped by his office on the pretext of discussing something. David hadn't even known he was going to until Kate cleared the appointment with him and when Ed had got inside, he'd barely closed the door before Ed's mouth had been half on his, half against his jaw.

There hadn't been any words that time. David's mouth had opened a couple of times but Ed's hands had pressed harder into his cheeks and kissed him, tongue coaxing his mouth open, until David's words had disappeared.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it had been over. Miliband had almost torn himself away and then, turning round, adjusted his tie and, after a moment of fumbling with his hair, he'd been gone, David staring through the door after him.

That had been Monday morning. It had been Monday night that he'd seen Miliband again. This time, it had been in Miliband's office-Kate had told him, with a raised eyebrow, that it was a discussion about TV debates, one-on-one between the leaders. This time, when David had got into Miliband's office, he'd been braced for the door closing.

"Wait-" His hands had already been braced on Ed's shoulders, before Ed's mouth could find his. "Wait. Wait."

Ed had been shaking his head. "Can't." His hands had already been at David's collar, his cheeks flushed. "Got a th-speech-Batterthea Artth th-Centre-"

The lisp hadn't been helping David's self-control.

"You managed to have time- _Ed-"_ David had had to make more of a struggle with himself than with Ed to hold him at arm's length.

"What?" Ed had managed to match his tone almost exactly, and with the pout of his mouth, he'd looked so sulky that it had made something melt in David's chest, and he'd had to look away, his own mouth quirking as he struggled for self-control.

"We've got to talk about this-"

"Talk about what?" Ed had looked away a little too quickly, arms folded tightly across his chest.

This, David had thought with a jolt in his stomach, taking in the defensive jut of Ed's chin, the sharpness of his elbows sticking out.

That almost painful, aching jolt in his chest.

_This._

"I thought thith is what you wanted?" Ed had said, almost belligerently, turning back sharply. "When you called me latht night?"

The lisp _really_ wasn't helping matters.

"Only if you do" David had said weakly, hating how pathetic the words sounded the second he heard them.

Miliband had stared at him. For a moment, David had thought he was going to laugh.

Then Miliband had marched towards him, fastened his fingers into his collar, and kissed him hard, almost roughly, a stamp of their mouths together.

"There" he'd said, pulling back a few seconds later, with almost a grimace. "I want it."

David had blinked, almost snorted. "That was supposed to be you wanting it?"

He'd almost dragged his sleeve across his mouth, but not quite.

Miliband had stared at him. "Well, what elthe?"

David might have believed him if his voice hadn't cracked on the last word. "I-"

Emily's words had echoed again, the moonlight slicing into the swimming pool.

"What ith it you were expecting, exactly?" Miliband had met his eyes for a moment, then looked away, jaw working slightly.

David had looked at him. Miliband had glanced at him once, then away, then back again. "What are you-"

David had stepped towards him and, awkwardly, placed his arms around his shoulders. Miliband had stiffened. For a moment, they'd just stood there, David's arms encircling him awkwardly. Then slowly, David had let his arms fall around Miliband, wrapping around his back, and he'd hugged him.

"What are you doing?" Ed's voice had been a whisper. David had stopped dead but Ed hadn't sounded angry. Just-

"Do you want me to stop?"

David had already been moving back from him, when Ed's arms had reached around his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

David had stood very still, one hand resting in the middle of Ed's back. "Is this-"

Ed had let out a long, shaky sigh. "Yeth."

David's heart had been thudding very, very hard.

"You know we're still-" Ed's voice had been a murmur. "You know we're not-we're th-still-"

David had closed his eyes, pushing Emily's words away. _He will._

"You mean, we still hate each other" he'd managed flippantly, even as his arms had pulled Ed a little tighter into his chest, even as he noticed how Ed's head fits perfectly, nestled into his shoulder.

Ed had been silent for a long moment, even as one hand had pressed awkwardly into David's back. Then he'd whispered "'Thpose tho."

David had closed his eyes, turned his face away, cheek laying on Ed's shoulder. He'd waited for his eyes to stop prickling before he'd lifted his head and said "We need to talk, though."

Miliband had been looking away from him, dark head resting on David's shoulder. "After PMQth." His voice had been a murmur and David had nodded without thinking, fingers absent-mindedly combing Ed's hair.

"Are you stroking my hair?" Ed had stilled at the touch.

David had frozen, before yanking his hand back as if he'd been burnt. "No!"

There'd been a short, pregnant pause. David had swallowed, his heart pounding.

"Yeah, you were." Ed's voice had been soft, almost a whisper. David had waited for him to pull away.

After a few moments, Ed had tilted his head and then his mouth had been pressing into David's, and then David hadn't been thinking at all.

He'd still caught his thoughts lapsing towards it back in the flat, eventually having to drag himself back to the present by focusing on Annabel and Emily, who were there with Perry and Rex to have dinner with the kids-Sam was away for the night, sorting a trip for Smythson. David, having noticed Emily's gaze roaming to him more and more often throughout the evening, had pulled himself together, making more of an effort to join in the conversation.

This had been made easier by Florence who, after having sat quietly eyeballing Annabel for the past few minutes, had slid off her chair and toddled quietly up to her, holding her arms up until she was lifted onto her knee.

"I've got a secret" she announced in a whisper loud enough to be heard by the whole room.

Annabel had kissed her head, juggling her slightly on her knee. "What's that, precious?"

Florence had glanced about, apparently oblivious to the fact the whole room was watching, and had then leaned up, put her mouth to her grandma's ear and whispered "Granny, don't tell anyone-but _my daddy's the Prime Minister."_

Now, even with the memory of the laughter echoing in his head, David can't decide if he's looking forward to PMQs or not. Or whether or not that's a bad thing.

* * *

Nick's never been more aware of the awkwardness of where he'd have to be sitting if he was at PMQs today than he is now, except back in 2010, when they were first deciding.

"It wasn't ideal" David-their David-points out, fairly, when Nick brings it up off-handedly, having sensed the other David's gaze straying to him a little more often than usual during their Quad session yesterday morning, trying to firmly discard the thought that David could see the nervousness prickling under Nick's skin. If it was deliberate, it had worked-he's already anticipating the one tomorrow.

"But there's no point worrying" David had volunteered, a moment later, perhaps mistaking Nick's silence for annoyance. "I mean, there are plenty of other things we can do to differentiate."

Nick manages a smile. "Not that. Just-thinking about Quad. Osborne going on about the-personal income tax-"

"Is he still not moving on it?"

"Oh, he's moving." Nick sighs. "Trouble is, he's-" He gives David a resigned shrug. "He's trying to pre-empt us."

David shakes his head, arching an eyebrow reluctantly at his phone. "He's a dick but he's a clever dick." A rueful smile plays at his mouth, catching Nick's gaze.

"A way of putting it."

David shakes his head. "He's a master tactician, Osborne. Always has been. Remember when he tried to get me to join them? I mean, he knew I was saying no the second I walked in, he just wanted to get me in there."

Nick glances at him, then away. David catches the look.

Nick glances back, meets his gaze. "Nothing" he says, off the silent look in return. "Just-I don't know, I, I just-"

He should have just kept his mouth shut.

"I knew you two were friendly" he says, cursing himself for being stupid enough to say it in the first place.

David just looks at him for a moment-Nick's opening his mouth, casting about for anything to change the subject when David says "Yeah, we were friendly." He places the slightest stress on the last word.

Nick eyes him curiously. David meets his gaze steadily, despite the slow flush of colour rising up his cheeks. Nick looks away first.

"The thing is" David says, with a careful clear of the throat. "George is a master tactician. Much harder to read than Cameron."

"That can be a good thing in politics" Nick points out fairly.

David nods. "That's what I was saying."

Nick eyes him again, mind still dwelling on something else David just said.

Then again, seeing David Cameron as anything like an open book right now-

He glances again at David, wondering if he should ask. But then he glances at his watch, thinks of the stream of people that'll be heading for the chamber, and knows it'll be easier to wait.

* * *

"Ed Miliband."

Ed would usually be thinking about whatever he's about to say when he gets to his feet at PMQs, which is nerve-wracking enough. Today, he gets to wrack his brain and try not to notice the exact parting of Cameron's hair across the aisle, which immediately serves to remind him of running his fingers through it.

"Mr Th-speaker-Mr Speaker-the reputation of every member of thiths Houthe ith damaged-when we see revelations as we have in the lathst couple of days."

His eyes flicker to Cameron's face, then immediately away.

"Can I take it from the Government's amendment today on second jobs-"

Cameron's blue eyes meet his across the dispatch box, wide and blue. Anyone who didn't know him would have said he looked guileless.

"-that he's proposing no change to the current system?"

His voice falls away at the end and he sits down almost carefully, tentatively, as if the floor might give way beneath them.

* * *

David gets up just as carefully. He can't remember the last time Miliband's voice was that soft.

In PMQs, at least.

If Miliband intended to put David off his guard, he could hardly have chosen a worse move. David almost feels his gaze sharpen, his skin prickle with that awareness Miliband seems to heighten in him.

"Well-well, first of all, l-let me-let me start by agreeing very much with the Right Honourable Gentleman that the allegations made against two very senior members of this House Of Commons-"

"We've got Straw." George had practically sung the words, dancing around the office. David had watched him, eyebrow arching.

"They've got Rifkind" Kate had responded, giving George's arm a smack with a folder. "We're not out of the woods yet."

"More people know Straw" Craig had pointed out fairly, propping his legs up on a chair. "There's more of a name, there. More of them would think Rifkind disappeared years ago."

"Still not out of the woods" Gabby had pointed out, reaching to adjust David's tie. "Just a bit closer to being out of the woods."

Michael had nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Just a few less trees."

 _"-are-_ extremely serious-they need to be properly investigated, I believe that both the Right Honourable Gentlemen have done the right thing-in terms of referring themselves to the House Of Commons-er-Standards Commissioner, in terms of having the whip withdrawn, and, indeed, retiring from this House, I think that's vitally important-"

Of course they're relieved as hell Straw's involved up to his eyes; the same way they know Rifkind being submerged in it is a liferaft from the Titanic to Miliband. The benefit for them is, as Craig pointed out, Rifkind's faded a little in the eyes of the public-Straw's been in high office recently enough to still be noticeable. Or, as George had more succinctly pointed out, "Rifkind's an old grey Tory. Least with Straw, all we have to do is blast IRAQ on a banner over his head."

"I think the most important thing we can do, and I certainly don't rule out further changes, but the most important thing is to make sure we apply the rules-"

He keeps his gaze angled away from Miliband's own though he can feel the other man's gaze on him. He keeps his voice careful, controlled, keeping Miliband waiting until he can get a sense of the other man's arguments.

"Paid lobbying, _banned_ -non-declaration of interests _, banned-_ making sure-wrong doing is investigated and punished-"

And every one of them something Miliband backs. If he can play nice, David can play nicer.

"We're not making no change-we've just passed a _Lobbying_ Act, and we've also passed a _Recall_ Act, so that people can sack their MP." And he sits down, keeping his gaze on his papers, aware of the cautious tension pulling in the air between them, the softened tips of their words.

"He _doesn't_ rule out further change and he has a chance to vote for change tonight-" Miliband's eyes are burning into his forehead but when David risks a glance up through his eyelashes, there's something different in his gaze-eyes a little too wide, voice wavering a little too much.

It makes David's fingers grip the edges of his papers more tightly, suspicion raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"This is what he wrote in 2009- _"Being a Member Of Parliament-""_

_"Order-"_

Bercow fulfils his role of being the exception that proves the rule in having his intervention actually prove useful for once. It gives David a moment to collect his thoughts, staring down at the papers in front of him, mind racing furiously. He's not worried about the quote-Michael had dug that one out the other night, and the answer could trip off his tongue. But Miliband digging up old quotes-that's normal.

That's Miliband. His Miliband. He can deal with that.

What isn't Miliband-

"-it's a very simple point which I _hope_ everyone can grasp. Mr Ed Miliband?"

"This-is-what-he-wrote-in-2009-and-I-quote-" Miliband blurts it out all in a rush, as though worried he might be cut off before the essential part of his point. David feels a grin tug reluctantly at the corners of his mouth.

 _That's_ Miliband.

 _""Being a Member Of Parliament should be a full-time commitment. The public deserve nothing less.""_ And he went on to say, and I quote-"

The finger's going again. That's Miliband. But the tone still-

_""Double-jobbing MPs won't get a look in when I'm in charge.""_

The quote's Miliband. The gestures are Miliband. Even some of the intonations. But it's like watching a new actor replace a long-standing cast member when they're still finding their feet.

David, glancing up, knows immediately that it's not just him. Balls' hand's just been raised, his eyes wide. But it isn't the usual sledging gesture. Instead his gaze is avoiding David altogether, and when David allows himself the slightest of glances to his right, he notices George's gaze flickering casually to Balls, the slightest shrug of one shoulder.

"What's changed?" Miliband sits down a little too quickly, the words faltering in the air, and David gets slowly to his feet, more curious than ever, but sharpening his words.

He might surprise Miliband by playing nice, but he's not going to give the novelty a chance to wear off.

* * *

Ed stares as Miliband sits down next to him, cheeks flushed, gaze uncharacteristically fumbling away from Cameron.

"I think the-the-the difficulty-"

 _"What was that?"_ His voice is a quick, snatched whisper. Miliband's eyes meet his for barely a second, dark over his blush, and then he snatches his gaze away again, focusing it somewhere over Cameron's shoulder.

Ed, searching for solidarity-it is his birthday, after all-glances briefly at Harriet, but she's watching Cameron, face carefully schooled into an expression of studied composure.

"He says we should look at specifics-" It should be more of a comfort that Cameron's not on his usual game either. Somehow, Ed thinks with a sickening lurch in his stomach, it isn't.

"-the difficulty with his specific proposal-" Cameron's getting more into the swing of it now, leaning on the dispatch box. But his gaze is roaming anywhere but near Miliband's face.

" Is that it would allow, for instance-" Cameron does a hint of his usual wide-eyed look. "Someone to be a paid _trade union official-"_

Ed has to admit, grudgingly, that that's a lot more Cameron's usual style.

But, even as the outbreak of _"Aaahs!"_ and shouts breaks out around the chamber, and Miliband sits back in his seat, glancing down the frontbench with a forced laugh, something about it rings hollow. Ed, glancing at Miliband, feels his stomach turn over-the hand gesture he's just attempted is far too close to Cameron's.

"-but it wouldn't allow someone to run a family business-or a family shop-"

Ed's eyes, in desperation, search for George's over the dispatch box. He's not disappointed-George's gaze finds his, and for a moment, the two of them share a glance-a wide-eyed look of consternation on George's part. For his own, Ed manages a silent, furious clear mouthing of the words: "What. The. Hell."

"Like-like many of his proposals-" Cameron still isn't looking anywhere near Miliband. "It's not thought through-it's whipped up very quickly-"

Ed catches George's slight grimace, and has to fight to prevent one of his own. He immediately relegates this to the worst birthday ever, barring his actually dying on one.

"If he thought it was such a good idea-" Cameron's gaze remains resolutely away from them, but Miliband's sitting on the edge of his seat, eyes on Cameron, almost bouncing. Ed has the bizarre feeling he's holding his breath.

"Why didn't he put it in place four years ago?" Cameron sits down too quickly, Miliband leaping up at exactly the same moment, leaving Ed to stare across the dispatch box at George and mouth the same question again, failing to grasp any other words that fit, and cursing his mother's decision of dates to give birth.

* * *

"Ed Miliband?"

"Well, let's-let's agree now-"

David doesn't need George's elbow in the ribs to know this isn't a good PMQs.

"That we'll rule out anyone being a paid trade union official-"

The thing is, it's not good for Miliband. And that isn't feeling like a good thing, either.

"A paid director-" Miliband's tripping over his words again. "A paid director-orr a paid consultant-" Miliband's hands are moving up and down. Any other time, it would be endearing. "Say -thsay yeths, and we can restore the reputation of this House."

It takes a moment for David to realise, as Miliband sits down, that that's actually the end to the question.

"Let me-let me-let me give him-"

God, it wasn't even a question.

"No, I'll answer him very clearly-" The wall of noise from the Labour benches at least gives him an excuse not to look at Miliband, to wait for quiet to fall before answering.

"Very clearly. Very clearly."

He doesn't have to look at Miliband to be aware of his gaze, casually, and now he doesn't have to look at him to be aware of its absence. The thing is, he can't decide if that's better or worse.

"When he-when he-" He glances at Bercow with a grin, knowing it's not just the opposite benches he's winding up, which makes him enjoy it more. "Very clearly-"

_"Orderrrrrr-"_

David settles himself back in his seat.

"Mr Efford, calm yourself!" Bercow's squinting at one of the Labour MPs. "I fear you're about to _explode_ , man!"

David deliberately keeps his eyes on his papers, not risking even a glance across the dispatch box.

"Get a _grip_ -we _must_ hear the answer from the Prime Minister-the Prime Minister?"

David's speaking even before Bercow's finished.

"I'm afraid-it's not the only problem with his proposal-"

He lets the tide of _"Ohhh!"_ from the Labour benches rise and fall before he carries on.

"Let me, erm-let me take _another_ problem with his proposal, with his cap, with his cap on-on earnings, and let me say this-"

Hunt's a good one to pick, George had pointed out, even before he'd thought of it. "Half his party already think he's part-Tory."

"Private schools, millionaire, didn't hate Blair-" David had mused, counting them off on his fingers. "Yeah, see what you mean."

Michael had cocked his head. "Isn't that just half the Labour frontbench?"

"Let me take me a specific example-let me take a very specific example-the Honourable-I-I've got as long as it takes-"

A short, reluctant silence follows.

"As long as it takes-l-let me take a very specific proposal-the Honourable Member for Stoke Central-who is Labour's Education Spokesman-"

A few _"Aahs!"_

"Now, he earned- _last_ year, _over_ a 10% cap-"

Miliband's watching him again. David feels a lurch in his chest at the brief glimpse of dark eyes.

"In terms of being a college lecturer-" He turns slightly, angling himself on the dispatch box so his gaze doesn't risk wandering near Miliband's.

"Now, I happen to think that's a very good thing-he brings to this House some outside experience and he tops up that experience-"

Drawing lines between Miliband and an MP like Hunt is all too easy. God, Miliband makes it easier each week. Not to mention who Hunt would have backed for leader.

"It's a pity it doesn't show up in his education policy, but nonetheless-"

He pauses for the gale of laughter.

"It is a good thing-but it-fundamentally, there is a disagreement between the Right Honourable Gentleman and me-"

David feels his cheeks warm very slightly.

 _"I_ think Parliament is stronger when we have people with different experiences coming to our House-"

He angles his gaze from Miliband's, feels his heart jump slightly at the words.

"But we must impose strict rules and _punish people_ when they get it wrong."

He sits down, cheers ringing in his ears along with the drumbeat of his heart, his cheeks suddenly burning as his own words echo in the chamber around him.

* * *

"We can definitely make progress-"

Ed deliberately doesn't look at Balls, who's been muttering non-stop for the past few minutes. Ed hasn't been able to make out most of it, but has picked up the words "chitchat", "dinner table" and "birthday".

"Let's agree to the printhciple of a cap-and we can consult on the level of the cap-"

He wishes the bloody scandal had broken any other week. PMQs is his one chance to really go at Cameron, really shout at-

_Not now it isn't._

"But what's in the motion today is something very specific-"

Making PMQs conciliatory is difficult at the best of times. But having to make it conciliatory this week, of all weeks-

"Which is being a paid director or a paid consultant-"

He lets himself look away from Cameron for a moment-Cameron hasn't looked up at him once and somehow, that's more unnerving than meeting his gaze.

"Now I've said from thiths dispatch box that we will also ban people being a paid trade union official-the offer he made to me-"

Oh God. Ed almost flinches the moment the words are out of his mouth.

_The offer he made-_

Oh _God._

Cameron doesn't look up. Ed doubts anyone but himself would have noticed, but the slight jerk of his shoulder makes Ed's stomach drop.

"I repeat the offer to him-"

_God._

"Let's get it done-" His voice rises oddly, as though trying to drown out the words themselves, the conversation in his office two nights ago suddenly wrestling itself to the forefront of Ed's mind.

"Let's agree this to restore the reputation of thiths House." He tries not to grimace, suddenly half-praying that Cameron doesn't look up. "Yes or no?"

Ed feels his shirt stick to his back as he sits down. Thank God Cameron looks away from him as he gets up.

"The problem is the proposal in front of us- _allows_ paid trade union officials-"

Oh, for God's sake.

Cameron's going to fuck about with the definition. That's-Ed can just pick him up on that.

"-but doesn't allow someone to run a family business-"

Cameron's smiling-how the _fuck_ is Cameron smiling?

"I have to say, Mr Speaker-Mr Speaker-"

Cameron slipping his glasses on makes something curl in Ed's stomach, the papers slip in his suddenly damp hands.

"I have to say, Mr Speaker-he-he-o-one of the other-" Cameron changes tack as smoothly as if he's rehearsed it, sliding his glasses loose again. "The problem with his proposal is not just the nature of the proposal-there's also a problem with the _timing-"_ Cameron brings the glasses down with the word. "Of his proposal."

Ed grits his teeth. Cameron's good. He is very, very good.

"He first put it forward-"

At this.

Ed feels heat creep up his neck.

"-two years ago-in the previous year-and I've done some work-" Cameron looks round, finger extended, eyes catching Ed's for barely a flicker. The glint in them makes Ed's heart skip a beat, and something about even the words feels wildly inappropriate, dear Lord-

"The MP with the highest outside earnings on the Labour side-" Cameron leans on the dispatch box, hands squeezing the wood to bring the point home. "Was _David Miliband!"_

Ed inadvertently crumples a corner of the page. Harriet elbows him, only for Ed to glance at her mutely, and then down at his notes, which he's in danger of ripping. He loosens his grip slowly, the movement on autopilot, the sudden thump of his heart the only sound.

Every fucking time-

"So, er-" Cameron's laugh is slightly tighter than usual, and his eyes dart away from Ed's.

Ed catches his thoughts and rams them down firmly. No. Cameron doesn't feel bad. He _doesn't._

"He hasn't thought it through-he hasn't worked it out, it's totally inconsistent-" Cameron leans over the dispatch box. "It's like almost every other policy he comes up with!"

* * *

"Mr Ed Miliband-"

"So-so-so-he's worried about the precise text-"

David can feel Miliband leaning over the dispatch box, even as he looks at his notes.

"He's worried about the precithse text of the motion-" and Miliband's easy to read. David can hear the little skip of excitement in his voice.

"I'm very happy-by whatever means we can-a manuscript amendment-"

David wonders if he's the only person who would have noticed how quickly Miliband tacked on those last three words. Then wonders if he's being paranoid.

"To-to insert-"

Oh Christ, he's not being paranoid.

 _"-paid trade union official_ -and-and he has the chance-"

David makes the mistake of looking up right as Miliband's finger sweeps in a long circle, taking in the benches behind David's head.

"And _all_ of his Honourable and Right Honourable friends, tonight in the lobby-"

David's staring at his papers, but he's not seeing a single word. Instead, his mind thinks it would be a good idea to replay that sweep of Miliband's finger again. And again.

His stomach flips pleasantly.

"-this is-this is a very big test-you can vote for _two_ jobs-or you can vote for _one-"_

God, his finger's still going. David swallows, his trousers suddenly achingly tight.

Oh, fuck.

"I'll be voting for _one_ job." Miliband's words are almost running into each other. "What will he be voting for?"

_You to stop with that bloody finger, for a start._

David gets up slowly, his legs almost wanting to decide it would be a brilliant idea to give way. Especially if that finger keeps-

"Where-where-where, I think, the Leader Of The Opposition is absolutely right-" David thanks God his voice doesn't give way. "And he put this in his letter to me this week-"

He'd nearly had a heart attack opening the bloody envelope, which he'd forced himself to rip into as quickly as possible, fingers shaking slightly. He'd scanned the words, heart thumping, making his gaze waver, until, calming himself, he'd forced himself to read it again and then he'd sunk back in his chair with a dull thud in his chest that could have been relief or disappointment.

"Is he says this-"The British people need to know that when they vote, they're electing someone-who may not be swayed by what they may owe to the interests of others-"

A few _"Aahs!"_ are already breaking out.

David slides off his glasses. " And I think the biggest problem we have on that front is the fact the _trade union movement-"_

The cheers are rising before he's even said the words.

"Own the _Labour_ Party-"

The cheers rise up in a wave around him, drowning the words out.

"Lock, stock and barrel!" He turns away from the other side, letting the words ring between them.

"Maybe make an amendment to that-" George bellows, dark eyes sparkling mischievously, a hint of colour dancing in his usually pale cheeks.

"Let me-let me-"

"Make the offer-" George's voice is rising slightly, a subtle encouragement to the benches behind them. "Make the offer-"

"No-no-no-so-"

"Make an offer-"

"So I make an offer to him-"David brings the glasses down on the dispatch box. "No more support from trade unions for the Labour Party- _then_ we've got a deal!"

David sinks down in his seat, a bittersweet satisfaction settling in his chest. But it feels too heavy, like food that doesn't want to go down, and he looks away as Miliband gets to his feet.

* * *

"Mr Th-Speaker-if he wants to talk about party funding-" Ed's voice is climbing higher and louder, his fingers curling. "Let's talk about a party bought and _sold_ by the hedge funds-"

He glances at his own benches, away from Cameron's bent, infuriatingly unruffled head.

"A m-a man-a man who appointed a self-declared _tax avoider_ as his treasurer-that'ths the Conservative Party-"

Cameron doesn't even bother to look up.

"Now he's got one more chance-"

_Fucking look at me._

"He talked big in Opposition about change-" Ed manages not to flinch at the words. "He's going to be judged on the way he votes tonight-he should vote for one job, not two-"

Ed's shoving the words out on autopilot, his gaze fixed on Cameron's head so fiercely it must burn him. _Look at me._

"Last chance!" He snaps it out, the words cracking like the hurt in his chest. "Yeths or no?"

Cameron gets almost lazily to his feet, his eyes swinging away, never deigning to settle on Ed once.

* * *

"The problem with erm-Members Of Parliament being swayed by outside interests is best seen in this one example-"

David keeps himself angled away. "This Parliament, the first in the history of Britain, has passed an act on lobbying-" The words hang in the air and his eyes find Miliband's.

It's only a glimpse but Miliband's staring at him, huge dark eyes full of outrage. The gaze is almost accusing.

David wrenches his own away with a squeeze in his chest. "The Labour Party has been lobbied by the trade unions to get rid of this Act-"

He turns away, raises his voice slightly. "What have they agreed? They've agreed-"

He lets the words hang there for a moment before he brings them crashing down. _"To scrap the Lobbying Act-"_

The yells that surge out through the benches almost smother his next words.

"That is what they've done -" He turns back to the dispatch box, gathering the words in his mouth, forcing himself to look at Miliband, the big dark eyes like a bruise in his chest. "They are owned lock, stock and _blockvote_ by the trade unions."

David sits down, a roaring in his ears, Miliband's big, wide-eyed gaze aching in his chest.

* * *

"What?" Balls demands, stopping so suddenly that George almost walks into him.

George blinks. "What what?"

"What what?"

"What do you mean what what, you said what first?"

"No, I said what, you said what, and I said what to your what?"

"No, I said what because you said what and then you said what what, so I said what to your what what?"

Balls holds up a hand. "Just shut up, Osborne, I don't need fucking _Shark Tale."_

George considers. "Still pretty sure you said what first."

"What are we going to fucking do?"

"About what?" George glances around-they've bumped into each other by the pigeon holes, safely away from the cameras in Central Lobby, where the post-PMQs briefings are happening, but they're still not taking any chances.

"About what-"

"What the hell was that?" they both say at the same time.

Balls leans against the stone wall. "Thank Christ for that, it was like a fucking tea party in there. He might as well have munched on some fucking fairy cakes. Or dunked a biscuit in tea, it was that bloody wet."

George nearly gags. "I was about to go to _lunch,_ Balls."

Balls stares at him. "What?"

George blinks. "You know. The game."

Balls blinks. George rolls his eyes and, glancing around, mutters something in Balls' ear.

Balls jumps away like George has tried to swallow his earlobe. "Jesus Christ!"

"Don't act like you never heard of it, you were at public school too."

Balls stares at him, shaking his head slowly. _"Sick."_

George sighs. "Look, you're just going to have to keep an eye on him on Friday."

Balls grimaces. "Oh, fuck."

"Should I be concerned we know your schedule better than you?"

"You mean, should I be fucking concerned?" Balls grimaces. "God. I'm going to end up throwing him in front of the train. If Gordon hasn't done it first."

George looks up. "Brown?"

Balls shrugs. "He called me last night-wanted to make sure he'd got the right number for Miliband. Granted, I wouldn't blame him for changing the thing, given how often Gordon calls-" He trails off at the sight of George's face. "What?"

George arches an eyebrow. "What does Brown want?"

"As if I'd tell you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Balls, I'm asking if it's to do with Dave."

Balls looks up. "Oh, fuck."

"You think it could be?"

"Maybe. Fuck, I don't know."

"Couldn't you ask him?"

Balls rolls his eyes. "I think I'll be trying to get off stage with him as quickly as possible, to be honest."

"For God's sake, just keep an eye on him. Don't fuck it up. And don't say something stupid like you usually do." George pauses. "Oh-happy birthday." And with a clap on the shoulder, he walks off.

* * *

David doesn't have to wait long before the door opens.

Miliband's standing there, looking slightly put out, hair rumpled. David's fingers flex in his pockets, taking the sight in.

"Thorry." Miliband looks furious with himself. David bites back a grin. "I was going over-lineth with Tom."

"Telling the press what a horrible torment I gave you?" David says, the tone a little too forced to be light.

Miliband blinks. _"You_ were the one who told the preth I was being personally horrid to you."

"Well, you were" David retorts, Ed's words still slightly rankling. "You can be a little shit in there sometimes, Miliband."

Miliband splutters. "You're thaying- _I_ -after all the thtuff-"

He falls silent because David's moved towards him.

David notices the sudden tension of his shoulders and slows, before gesturing awkwardly to the couch. "I was just going to-"

"Oh." Miliband's eyes dart away and David, experimentally, on impulse, reaches for his tie.

His fingers close around the end of it, his eyes resting on Miliband's face, taking in his reaction. Miliband's eyes widen slightly, his pupils seeming to deepen, making his large eyes seem even darker. David, taking that in, watches the flush of colour rise slowly in Ed's cheeks, as his fingers travel slowly, steadily up his tie until he reaches the knot which he loosens slightly, not taking his eyes from Miliband's face the whole time.

Miliband's cheeks are burning by the time David's fingers fall away, his lips slightly parted. But he doesn't drop his gaze, and when David, his own breathing slightly rapid now, says "Shall we-", they both look away at the same time.

* * *

Ed moves slowly, thoughts still reeling, slipping through his fingers like water. He can still feel Cameron' s fingers working his tie loose slowly, the whisper of material against his skin. His heart is beating painfully fast.

He sneaks a glance under his eyelashes at Cameron, then away with another thud of his heart. The sight of Cameron's eyes darting away from his makes his heart skip.

Ed's never felt that before. This-being-

He can't put a word on it. It's attraction. Definitely. But Ed's sure he's been attracted to people before, he's sure of it, he has to have been-

But this-this is-

It's something that throws him off-kilter every time he sees Cameron. He almost feels slightly tipsy, staring at the carpet, intensely aware of Cameron sitting a few inches away from him, Ed's thoughts itching to calculate how many inches, his leg alive with the need to just move once, close the distance between them into the warm, trembling contact.

He's never felt like this. This trembling in his own body. Cameron's face is just _there,_ behind his eyes now-like background music, but always there, and Ed's not sure if he likes it or hates it.

But then, he's spent the last five years, at least, dwelling on Cameron, he thinks, not for the first time in the last few days. Maybe longer. His days have been folded around Cameron, almost sculpted around him, carving the outlines of a picture of a victory. That's how it's had to be, even before, when Cameron was the person to watch, the up-and-comer, constantly searching for a chink in the armour, the one who was always about to eclipse. Even when he hadn't been Ed's person to watch, he'd felt like it.

But this-

Ed presses his hands together, his heart beating so hard he almost feels sick with it.

"What did you want to athk?" he manages, forcing himself to turn to Cameron, trying his best to sound dispassionate.

"Ah-yeah." Cameron's voice jumps a little, nervously, which gives Ed a leap in the chest. He gathers the sound up, the way he has for years whenever that crack in Cameron's voice has caught his ears, but now instead of searching it, examining it, a part of him wants to hold it, turn it over in his hands.

"Look." Cameron sits up suddenly, meets his gaze head-on. "We've got to work this out, Miliband."

Something pulls tight in Ed's chest. His thoughts seep together in a mess of absolute panic.

_Please don't say you want to stop. Please don't. Not after all of that, not-_

"If we're going to do this, we need to decide how best to do it" Cameron tells him, and relief seizes Ed's body, flooding his thoughts, gripping him before he can think twice, leaving him almost wanting to gasp.

"Oh" he says when he can speak again, when he notices the sudden sharpness of Cameron's gaze on him. "Oh, right. Yeth."

Cameron nods. "Right."

"Yeth."

There's a short silence.

"So" Cameron says, turning slightly towards him-Ed, in his current skin-tingling heart-pounding state, notices the couple of inches closer this places his knee. "Listen. First, we've got to make sure we're careful."

"Obviouthly."

Cameron's finger flickers to Ed's mouth in an instant, ghosts over his bottom lip for less than a breath. Ed feels the touch tingle, catch his breath in his throat, the blood rise to the surface of his skin.

Cameron's gaze drops with his finger but Ed can see the slight smile curve his lips, colour in his cheeks.

On an impulse, the same one that sculpts his answers at PMQs, Ed reaches out, and his hand settles on Cameron's knee.

He feels Cameron's breath catch this time, feels the slight jump in his body, under his hand. Ed fights the urge to pull his hand back, instead holding it there, taken aback by the odd rush it gives him-a jolting rush through his body.

Slowly, on an instinct he didn't know he had, Ed moves his hand an inch higher up David's leg. David's eyes widen and he gasps.

The blush that creeps up his cheeks a few moments later makes something melt in Ed's chest, ripple through his veins. His own breath catches and he's leaning into Cameron like _that_ , without even thinking about it-

For a moment, he thinks he's going to kiss Cameron's cheek, but then their faces touch and instead, he just freezes slightly, his mouth and nose seeking out David's skin by instinct. He feels Cameron shudder and they're both still for a moment, hearts rapid.

Ed moves slightly, nose pressing into David's skin, mouth brushing his jaw, and David's head tilts back with a little sigh. The sight does something to Ed and his mouth moves to David's neck without thinking, seeing the way David arches, exposing more of his skin to Ed's tongue.

Ed kisses softly, feels David twitch hard. Ed loses his breath, then, experimentally, kisses again, higher.

David lets out a little gasping sound, his eyes half-closed. Ed kisses again, sucking slightly at the skin, and a little moan breaks free from David's throat.

Ed's breath stutters, his heart pounding at the thrill the moan sends through him. He sits still, trembling, hardly daring to breathe, before slowly, cautiously, kissing again. When David makes the sound again, Ed feels something molten melt through his veins, his heart ricocheting with the sound. Cameron's cheeks are rosy, his eyes squeezed shut now, one hand clenched round the arm of the couch. He shakes slightly as Ed breathes against his skin, arching a little under the sensation.

 _I'm doing this to him._ The thought sends a thrill through Ed, seizes his breath, leaves his heart pounding. His next kiss is more rushed, almost scraping his teeth against David's skin, and one of his hands settles against David's cheek, cupping his face, and then he kisses higher, nuzzling the skin under David's ear.

David jumps under the kiss. Ed feels a bizarre urge to giggle rise in his throat and smothers it under another hot, open-mouthed kiss against David's skin. David arches into the touch, his teeth biting at his bottom lip in a way that makes something ache sweetly between Ed's legs and then a moan drags itself out from his throat. "Fuck, Edward-"

Ed freezes. The name jolts through him like lightning and suddenly he's so hard that he has to fasten his hand into the back of the couch, clutching at it for support.

David's eyes open and they stare at each other. Ed's breathing very, very hard.

"You called me Edward." He's surprised his voice comes out clearly. He's surprised he can speak.

Cameron's voice is low, husky, almost a whisper. "Yeah."

They stare at each other, eyes wide, and then Cameron's moving, their noses pressed against each other, one of David's hands tangling in his hair as he brings their mouths together.

* * *

David can't explain the feeling when Ed's mouth touches his.

If he'd been pushed to, he'd have said it feels like something locking shut in his chest, like a key turning in the front door at the end of the day, shutting out the world around you.

But at the same moment, he'd have said it feels like the moment before he leaps off a rock on Jura, the moment just after, stomach rushing up behind you as you plunge through the air, hair prickling on your arms and legs, a brightness that ripples through you, leaving you so alive you can't feel yourself breathe.

And he really, really likes the feeling of Ed Miliband's mouth on his.

Miliband's pressing his mouth back into David's just as fiercely, tugging at his suit. David grinds his mouth back, the frustration knotting tight in his chest, snarling into a deeper, harder kiss.

"Cameron-" Miliband gasps his name and David kisses him again before pressing their foreheads together, taking a deep breath, trying to drag his thoughts back into some semblance of order.

"Yeah?" he says, almost to himself. "Yeah. Of course. We-"

He lets go of Miliband reluctantly and turns round. "We-"

He glances at Miliband, then away, unexpectedly nervous. "I-you-" He swallows. "That was-"

Miliband doesn't look at him, but as he looks away, his cheeks pinken and David catches sight of what looks distinctly like a glimmer of pride in his eyes. The sight makes something wriggle fondly in his chest.

"Unexpected" he manages. Miliband's cheek lifts slightly in a grin before he seems to remember himself, but not before David has to look away with a small smile.

"In here" he says, when he can trust his voice to stay steady. "That's the main thing."

Miliband blinks. "What do you mean, in here?"

"Offices. If it's not at home, then in our offices. Or somewhere private. That's the only way to know it's safe." He looks Miliband straight in the eye now.

Miliband nods. "That maketh thenthe."

David blinks. "I don't think I've ever heard you say you agree with me so fast."

"Try being thenthible more often, then." Miliband blushes and glowers at him.

David has to look away with another smile.

* * *

"Just go and drag him out, then!" Ayesha barks, after the fifth _hmph_ from Tom.

"Not physically" pipes up the other Tom, from where he's stretched out under the desk, supposedly editing a speech but apparently scrolling through his phone.

Tom glowers from his desk. "It was _you_ who said we should let him go."

Ayesha shrugs. "If you think you know better."

Tom mutters something inaudible and turns to stare out of the windows.

"It wasn't that bad" Ayesha ventures as the room lapses back into a gloomy silence. "I mean, we've had worse."

"It was a fucking tea party" growls Tom.

"Not really" says other Tom, at the same moment as Ayesha says "What tea parties have you been to where people start arguing about hedge funds?" She holds up a hand. "Actually, don't answer that, you live in Highbury Fields, for God's sake."

"Eddie the Eagle had better days" Rachel opines flatly from the corner of the room, where she's been sitting in a green armchair, poring intently over her phone for the last few minutes.

"So did your dad" points out Stewart, very quietly. Rachel's boot finds his foot without even looking at him. "Ow!"

"Oh, shut up, Stewart."

Ayesha slides down to the carpet, to peer at Tom's phone screen with him. "What's that? 12 weeks?"

"20" Tom corrects her, staring at the baby scan, his eyes softening.

"Ah-" Ayesha peers closer at the now definitively baby-shaped blur on the screen. "Boy or girl?"

"Found out last time." Tom glances up at her with a grin. "Boy."

Ayesha claps her hand slightly, then winces as her head thuds against the underside of Ed's desk. "Ow."

"You OK?"

"Yeah-" Ayesha wriggles out, leaning back against the desk instead. "Thought of any names yet?"

"Nah." Tom cocks his head at her from under the desk. "Sarah doesn't want to jinx anything."

Ayesha nods, watching as Tom's eyes return to the baby scan once again, roaming over the baby's blurred, indistinct features, still battling its' way into reality.

"When's the due date again?" Stewart asks, after a moment.

"Around mid-June. They told us they want to be careful about an exact time, in case-"

Tom hesitates for barely a moment. "He arrives early" is all he says but Stewart meets Ayesha's gaze and, for once, shuts up.

"Won't be here for the election then" she tells Tom, a little too brightly.

"Unlike bloody Marc's" the other Tom-the grumpy, not-expecting-a-child Tom-mutters.

"I don't think he got Liz pregnant just to spite you" Rachel half-snaps at him.

Tom rolls his eyes. "Well, it would have to be on the bloody _day,_ wouldn't it? For fuck's sake, the _one_ time you want a train to be late-"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's how Marc and Liz see it" other Tom says, his voice slightly louder than usual. "It's only their first kid you're talking about."

"Oh, for fuck's-" Tom chucks his phone down. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"What was it meant to sound like, then?"

"It's just not fucking ideal."

"To them, it probably feels pretty fucking ideal."

"I've had two kids, Hamilton, I know what it fucking feels like."

Tom stares up at him in the sudden, taut, silence.

"Lucky you" is all he says, coolly, before he yanks himself out from under the desk and walks to the door.

"Fuck." Tom leans his head on one hand. "Fuck-come on, Tom, you know I didn't mean-"

Ayesha stares at him, shaking her head. _I'm going to kill you_ , she mouths at him, the words big, so that he can't possibly mistake them.

The door slams shut behind Tom with a resounding thud that seems even louder in the silence.

Tom-the remaining, lesser Tom-throws up his hands. "I didn't mean it like _that_ , for fuck's sake."

"What the fuck _did_ you mean it like?"

Tom's mouth opens and closes silently.

"Oh, well, that went well" Stewart remarks, closing his laptop. "And we didn't even get to the main issue."

Ayesha rolls her eyes. "Really? This afternoon?"

"It's got to be fucking soon."

Ayesha barely wants to spare Tom a glance, but she forces herself to glower at him briefly. "Ed'll just put it off today anyway."

"Right about that" Rachel mutters, uncharacteristically quietly. "Not like he hasn't got form."

Tom throws up his hands. "Can't you talk to him?" he appeals-this to Stewart. "You've known him longer."

Stewart shakes his head. "Sorry, mate. Best leave it right now."

Tom swears, throws himself back in his chair. "I'm not getting the bill for the call" he warns them, suddenly, jabbing his pen like a weapon. "I can tell you that for fucking nothing."

"Just sixteen" Ayesha mutters, but when Tom whirls round to look at her, she's the picture of innocence.

It isn't until an uneasy silence has fallen again that, as Ayesha's tracing the carpet with her toe, she hears Rachel mutter "So much for that article."

Ayesha shoots her a curious look, but Rachel's bent over her phone, blonde bobbed hair obscuring her and her words from view.

* * *

Ed swallows, interlinks his fingers, then unlinks them.

"All right" he says, then a little louder. "That'th-I can-"

He's made deals with Cameron dozens of times. This is just another.

"I can agree to that."

Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly. Ed shoots him a furious look, silently daring him to comment.

Whether Cameron sees the look or not, he just arches an eyebrow.

"Two-we need to be careful. I mean-we can't tell _anyone._ Apart from the people who-already know." David colours slightly.

Ed arches an eyebrow. _"You're_ the one who'th talked about it."

"I said you could tell Justine-"

"Oh, I need your _permission?"_

Cameron stares at him. "That was pathetic even for you, Miliband."

Ed feels something swell in his chest and looks away.

He can almost feel Cameron sigh. "Miliband-Miliband-come on, you know, I didn't mean it like that."

Ed humps a shoulder. He doesn't know whether Cameron means it or not. He doesn't know why he's surprised. Cameron's said much worse to him before. He doesn't know why his eyes are suddenly prickling.

"Miliband." There's a moment of hesitation, before Cameron's hand lands on his shoulder. "C'mon."

Miliband stares at the hand, the touch unfamiliar but oddly-

Ed suppresses a small shiver of delight-

Sort of-nice.

Ed nearly groans. God, two minutes ago he had his tongue halfway down Cameron's throat. A minute ago, he was furious with him. Now, he's having a crisis over his hand on his shoulder.

"Miliband-"

"I'm fine" Ed bursts out, more harshly than he might have. He wriggles round, forcing himself to meet Cameron's eyes. "I'm fine."

Cameron just looks at him. His hand squeezes very slightly, but falls away.

"And-" Cameron clears his throat, glances away, cheeks pinkening. "We-um-ah-"

Ed looks at him, suddenly intrigued by the sight of Cameron blushing.

Cameron clears his throat again, ostentatiously. "We probably shouldn't go further than....kissing."

Ed's head jerks up. "Who says I want....more?"

The words bark out far too quickly.

Cameron holds his gaze, a slight smile hovering at his mouth. Ed's cheeks burn treacherously.

It's not that he thinks about Cameron like that.

But-when he's dreaming, in those moments before he wakes up-

Ed tells himself not to sneak a glance at Cameron under his eyelashes. His eyes don't listen.

He takes in his broad shoulders, the strip of skin visible where he's unfastened his top button. The slight disarray of his hair.

Ed looks away, mouth suddenly dry, a ripple of wanting trembling through his body, heart pounding.

"Fine" he says, a little too quickly. "That-that would be-that would-"

Ed can't even contemplate it. He can't even-

His eyes flicker to Cameron again. Cameron's sitting, slumped forward slightly. Ed's eyes travel down slowly over the arch of his back to-to-

Ed looks away rapidly, face erupting into a frenzy of heat. He swallows, fingers curling very slightly.

"Fine" he manages, when he can trust himself to speak. "Fine. That'th-ah-that'th fine."

His eyes meet Cameron's, then dart away. They sit there for a moment, then glance at each other.

Cameron breaks the silence, a little more hesitant than usual. "Well. That seems to be everything."

Ed nods, for once empty of a reply.

Cameron's leg presses against his very gently. Ed jumps, which only makes his arm brush against Cameron's, which makes Cameron's forehead touch his neck.

Ed nearly jumps, his skin tingling with sensation.

"What-" His voice is barely a whisper, and then Cameron's mouth presses to Ed's neck, fleetingly, not a kiss, but almost a nuzzle. Ed jumps again and their eyes lock. Cameron's mouth twitches.

"Well-" His voice is a whisper. "Since we've-ah-completed any official business-"

His mouth touches again, then again. Ed's breath stutters with each one.

"I thought-since we've agreed-" Cameron's mouth touches the corner of Ed's.

Ed closes his eyes, searching for any willpower.

"One more thing" he breathes, and Cameron makes a small sound in his throat as he pauses.

Ed takes a deep breath, but when he looks into Cameron's eyes, his voice comes out almost a whisper.

"It'th only coping" he whispers. "Isn't it?"

Cameron stares back at him for a brief moment. Then his head moves in what might be a nod before his mouth tilts very gently to Ed's and presses into a soft, almost sweet kiss.

* * *

Ed's mouth is buried in Cameron's neck when there's a knock at the door.

"Shit." Cameron wriggles away as Ed leaps back, almost falling off the couch, frantically wrestling with his own tie.

"Fuck." Cameron scrambles upright, yanking at his tie. "Fuck. You all right?"

Ed nods, heart hammering. Frantically, he pushes himself upright and then turns away to the corner, adjusting his tie, cheeks burning. He tidies his hair, then panics that he might be messing it up even more. He's standing with his back to the door when Cameron opens it.

It lasts less than a minute, but it feels like forever. Ed stares unseeingly out of the window, palms dampening, heartbeat jumping, until he hears the door click shut again.

There's a few moments' silence before he feels Cameron walk up behind him. "It was Kate." His voice is a whisper against Ed's skin, guiding him back, out of sight of the window.

Ed manages a swift nod. "What did-" he manages, struggling to compose his features before he turns back.

"Michael just wanted to know if I was all right." The words tickle Ed's neck. Slowly, Ed looks up at him, follows as David gestures towards the couch.

It isn't until David's mouth is on his again, warm and soft, that Ed, on an impulse, pulls away. "What do you mean, are you all right?"

"Mmmph-" Cameron gives him a look of consternation. "What're you talking about?"

"What d'you mean, are you all right? Why does he want to know?" Ed tries to unsnare the sudden panicked jolt tangling with his thoughts.

David's eyebrow arches. "He doesn't know."

"I wathn't thinking he did." Ed chews his lip. "I mean-are you all right?"

"Miliband-"

"Are you?"

David stares at him. "Yeah" he says, and then "Wait, you thought there was something-"

Ed looks away. "No, I jutht-"

He feels himself blush furiously.

He doesn't look at Cameron, but he can almost _feel_ the delighted grin starting to play at his mouth.

"Are you worried about me, Miliband?"

Ed blushes more fiercely. "No!"

Cameron bursts out laughing. Ed glowers at him, willing his gaze to incinerate Cameron on the spot.

It doesn't. Cameron keeps laughing.

Ed pulls away from him.

"Thinthe you're obviouthly completely fine, I'll go." He tries to snap the words out, but at that exact moment, Cameron tugs on his arm and Ed trips over his own foot and they both fall back onto the couch in a tangle of arms and legs.

Cameron bursts out laughing. Ed struggles to extricate himself from the couch, struggling furiously not to laugh. "Get off me-"

"You don't want anything to happen to me" David says, with a grin.

"Right now, I bloody do" is all Ed can think to snap back, which makes David laugh harder. Ed feels David's arms tighten around him and can feel his laughter, shaking through his chest, vibrating through both their bodies.

David sits up a few seconds later with another grin. "I didn't know you cared."

Ed folds his arms and looks away. "You didn't anthwer my question."

He notices Cameron's smile flicker very slightly, but anyone else would have thought they'd imagined it.

"I'm fine" David says, with another slight smile.

Ed looks at him. "What is it, then?"

David looks back, lips twitching. For a moment, Ed's sure he isn't going to answer.

Then, abruptly, David gets up, walking round the back of the couch, going the long way to the desk opposite. Ed frowns, turning to watch him as Cameron leans against his desk for a moment before turning back to Ed. Ed can see his reflection in the long windows though-watches him bite his lip.

"Six years" he says suddenly, with what seems like a quick attempt at a grin over his shoulder.

Ed frowns. "Th-six yearth."

David gives a brief nod. "Six years." He gives Ed another attempt at a smile. "My son" he says, quickly, before looking away.

Ed feels everything go still.

Oh God.

David does what looks like an almost pained arch of his eyebrows, a flicker of a grin. "Anniversary." He gives an odd sort of half-shrug. "Doesn't hit as hard as it did. But, you know. You still notice."

Ed stares at him, something heavy filling his chest, smothering his words.

David gives him another half-smile, before he walks over to the couch and sits down, a few more inches away from Ed than earlier.

Ed stares at him. "I didn't know" he says, quietly.

David does the half-shrug again. "There's no reason you should."

Ed looks at him. "I'm thorry." His voice is a whisper.

David's cheek twitches slightly. "I-" He smiles very slightly. "Not your fault."

Ed looks at him, and then, on an impulse, moves closer. When David doesn't move away, he moves closer again, and then, on instinct, his arms move out and, very awkwardly, settle around Cameron's shoulders.

He feels David jump in surprise but when he doesn't tense up, Ed doesn't pull away. His arms adjust tentatively, one around Cameron's back, one around his shoulders.

David's still for a moment. Then, slowly, he leans into Ed, experimentally, as though testing the ground beneath him, and then lets his head rest against Ed's shoulder.

Ed's breath catches in his chest. Slowly, his hand moves to David's shoulder. With a jolt, he wonders if Cameron might be crying, but when he touches his cheek, it's dry. David's blue eyes meet his own and Ed feels his cheeks warm.

"Thorry" he mutters, but when he moves to pull it back, David's fingers close around his wrist, holding his hand still against his cheek.

Ed stares at him. David manages a half-smile. "That-that's actually rather nice."

Something warm opens up in Ed's chest, like sunlight touching his skin on a summer morning. He keeps his hand there and, when David wriggles closer, he manages, tentatively "Do you-do you want to talk about it at all?"

David's eyes flicker to Ed's. For a moment, he seems to genuinely consider it. But then he shakes his head, with a slight smile, and then says "This is nice, though."

His hand moves up, fingers teasing at Ed's hair.

Ed's own eyes flicker closed at David's fingers dancing across his scalp, as though David's scratching an itch he didn't even know he had.

Slowly, almost without realising it, they settle against the back of the couch, David's head resting against Ed's shoulder. When he tilts his head slightly, it's to see David's blue eyes looking up at him.

"How old would he be?" Ed's voice is low, gentle, a new tone for him to use around Cameron.

David doesn't look away from him. "Twelve, nearly thirteen."

Ed nods, something swelling under his throat. He reaches for something else to say, but, in the end, just strokes Cameron's cheek with his thumb, looking back at him the whole time.

When David slowly tilts his mouth to Ed's, Ed doesn't look away. He keeps his eyes open until their mouths touch, and then winds his hands into Cameron's hair, and when he returns the kiss, it's different from earlier. It's soft, open and warm, but sweet. Their arms wrap tightly around each other, Ed's around David's back, propping him up. The thought sends a protective thrill through Ed and he kisses David slowly, more deeply, comfort-kissing, but with something more, something deeper, tugging in his chest, pulling them closer.

When their mouths break apart a few moments later, they don't. Instead, David's head rests on Ed's shoulder, and Ed doesn't move, drawing his fingers through David's hair, at the same moment as David's fingers draw through his, breathing in the warm, sweet smell of each other.

* * *

The sky overhead through the glass panels of Portcullis House is dark, as Nick takes a sip of coffee. He waits, fingers tapping on the cup, and then says "Didn't George mention that to you?"

"What?" David stirs his own absent-mindedly.

"That time he tried to get you to join them. When you were doing the negotiations for the coalition-"

"Oh." David glances away, then back at him. "No, he didn't, actually. Think he knew he didn't need to."

Nick just nods. Waits quietly, taking another sip.

"I know he wanted us in the coalition." David says the words slowly, deliberately. "That was pretty obvious."

Nick nods, takes in the sudden keenness of David's gaze, the grip of the fingers around his coffee cup, and lets it rest.

"James all right?" he asks after a moment, deliberately, pulling the lid off his cup.

"Yeah. Told him we were just killing time before the vote." David spins the lid of his cup with a grin. "He's trying to work out dates for France in summer. Or maybe May, after-"

He lets the sentence hang there, and Nick doesn't make him finish it.

They're silent for a few moments, glancing around the atrium of Portcullis House. The place is filled with the hum of the electric lights, the gentle click of shoes on the tiled floor, the carefully-arranged little oases of water shimmering gently around the room.

"Can I ask you something?" Nick asks it without looking at him, letting his eyes rest on one of the pools.

He can almost feel David still next to him, awareness prickling his skin. "You just have."

Nick pulls off the lid of his cup, tries to occupy himself with stirring his coffee a little too vigorously. "When did you first know you were gay?"

David is very, very still next to him. Nick curses himself. "Sorry. That was stupid, forget it-"

David just looks at him over his coffee cup. "If you really thought that, you wouldn't have asked."

Nick wants to kick himself as he looks away, hands reflexively squeezing the cup a little too tightly, almost making the hot foam spill over the sides. "Shit-could have fucking burnt-"

"When I was twelve."

Nick looks up to see David staring away from them both over his own cup. He blinks, then turns to look at Nick. "Twelve or thirteen. Around then."

Nick knows this already, hasn't forgotten the wave of headlines that had followed in 2010, the more serious, measured pieces coming later. But it's different hearing David say it himself, out loud.

Nick takes a breath. "You-how-"

He doesn't need to finish the question. David's watching him closely. "How did you know you were straight?"

Nick takes a sip of his coffee too quickly, winces as it burns his mouth. "Good point."

"Except I knew I had to keep it quiet" David says mildly, looking away. "That it wasn't normal."

Nick's heart aches.

"Did you think-before-James-that you'd ever-find anyone?"

"No." David says it directly, playing with the lid of his coffee cup, stirring his drink again. "Being alone was easier. More-"

He squeezes the cup a little, without appearing to notice. "Easier."

"But then-James-"

David's features soften, melting out of the usual composure reserved for discussions such as these. "I didn't really know I'd-with James-until it was happening-"

The words jolt in Nick's chest, making him think. He glances at David, then again. "You-you'd never wanted that-before James?"

David's cheeks pinken slightly. "I'd felt things" he says, looking down at his cup. "But James is different from all that."

Nick opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, stirring his own coffee.

"Did-do you think-did George know?" The words spill out before Nick's quite got hold of them.

"Know what?"

Nick curses himself. "That you were gay" he says, deciding to dispense with any beating around the bush.

David hesitates for only a breath before turning back to his coffee cup. "I've never asked him" he says, mildly, before he takes another sip, looking away.

"Did you like him? When he asked you to defect, that time?"

David's colour heightens very slightly. "Yes. You know I did."

Nick takes a deep breath. "Did you fancy him?"

He pushes the words out as quickly as possible.

David looks away, colour creeping slowly up his cheeks. "That's none of your business."

Nick looks away, too. "Sorry" he manages, after a moment. "That was-"

"Is that one of the reasons you think I was so keen on the coalition?" David's tone is mild as ever, but there's a hint of steel underneath the words. "Because of that?"

"No!" Nick turns round, almost knocking his cup over. "No! Nothing like that. It's just...complicated-"

_I'm totally out of my depth in how to deal with this and you're the only person I know who knows what it feels like._

David watches him, then leans in for a moment, lowering his voice. "What is it?"

Nick shakes his head. "It was nothing like that. It's just-I-"

For a moment, he thinks about telling David everything he knows. The sauna to the flat to the Quad yesterday morning where the other David acted like absolutely nothing had happened.

But, looking at David, calculating the amount of time until the vote-

He shakes his head. "Not right now" is all he manages, with a shake of the head. "But I can-I'll explain another time."

David nods, to Nick's relief. But then, David doesn't push. Nick had known that David doesn't push. Maybe that's another reason.

He takes another sip of his coffee. "Anyway" he says, more lightly, after a few moments of silence have lapsed. "We'll need to be agreeing on a strategy."

David meets his gaze, composure back in place, carefully, giving nothing away. "If that's the outcome" is all he says quietly, before reaching for his coffee and taking another sip.

Nick watches him for a moment. Then he turns back to his own cup, fingers opening and closing, almost escaping his attention so that almost all at once, he has to rear back to prevent the hot liquid spilling over.

* * *

"Come on, Nance." Dad pats her bed as Nancy gets up from the sewing machine in the corner, removing the dress carefully and lying it on the desk. Dad pulls back the duvet for her, glancing over at the dark blue scarf on her desk. "Is that for Book Day?"

"Yeah. The Luna scarf-well-" Nancy climbs into bed, frees Silver from the white wood of her bed-frame. "It's not really a _scarf_ , it's one of Mum's blouses, I've altered it and sewing it with silver-"

"Altered it?"

"Yeah." Nancy wriggles down the bed as Dad tugs the duvet up, stroking her hair off her face.

"What are you using for El's Robin Hood thing?"

"One of Mum's old dresses." Nancy rolls over, tucking her white canopy back behind the frame of her bed. "It's sort of a lighter emerald. Like that one in that picture of Princess Diana when she was pregnant but lighter, Mum said she'd help me do the hood-"

"Have you got a bow and arrow?"

"Yeah, we're sort of making one-" Nancy points across the room to her desk. "Mum helped me do, like, mood boards for them, they're over there-" She turns over as Dad gets up and crosses the room, moving one carefully off the desk to carry back, where he sits down at her feet.

Nancy rolls over, closing her eyes, idly taking in the sight of her gauze canopy over her bed. It was one of the presents she opened on her birthday-she's been asking for one for ages, and it only took Florence seeing it for her to demand one too. Nancy's been asking about painting her room a different colour too, but Mum had said that that might have to wait, so the canopy's a consolation prize.

Nancy's not stupid. She knows a canopy's much easier to take down and move somewhere else.

"These are really good, Nance" Dad says, still looking over her mood board for Elwen's costume-Uncle George had cracked up laughing when Elwen had said who he was going as and said that Ed Miliband could put that on his campaign leaflet. Florence's face had crumpled in confusion and Nancy had tried to explain that it was because Mr Ed Miliband wants people to have to give away more of their money for things, but Florence didn't really get it.

"Thanks." She curls up on her side. "Not sure how to make a quiver, though-Flo wrecked the last one, she was playing with it with Larry."

Dad watches her for a moment, quietly, not saying anything. Nancy rolls over to look back at him. "What?"

Dad looks away, then back at her, giving her foot a squeeze through the duvet. "You all right, Nance? After tonight?"

Nancy shrugs. "Yeah." She tugs at the duvet. "Is Mum?"

Dad nods. "Yeah, she's fine. She's just having a lie-down." Dad gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Are you all right?"

Nancy nods. The truth is, it's easier to know what to do on Ivan's birthday than on the day he died. In fact, the first year after Ivan died, Nancy didn't even notice the day until it was gone. But she'd only been six, then. She remembers Ivan's birthday that year, when she'd been crying, because Daddy wasn't there when they lit the candles.

"You know I'm probably not going to be here for Ive's birthday, this year." Dad strokes her hair off her forehead. "Because of the campaign."

"Yeah."

"And you'll be in Ireland with Auntie Emily." Dad strokes her cheek.

"Yeah." Nancy wriggles. They'd baked a cake together tonight when they got home from school, which is still in the kitchen, having had several slices caved out, including a large chunk, courtesy of Elwen.

"Have you got that-" Dad pulls his legs up onto the bed so that he's lying next to her. "Are you seeing Jodie on Friday?"

"Yeah, Mum's getting me early." Nancy hasn't seen Jodie for a few months now, not since just after the summer holidays when they went back to school. They used to see Jodie or someone like her every week right after Ivan died, and Mum still goes every few weeks, but she, Elwen and Flo only need to go every now and then. Flo mostly just does colouring and stuff, anyway, which is what Nancy and Elwen did at first, too.

Dad kisses her head. "Do you want to go?"

Nancy shrugs. "Mmm." She doesn't mind going to see Jodie. She doesn't even mind being asked about whatever's changed at home or school recently. It's just that most times when she goes to see Jodie, she feels pretty much the same way about Ivan as she did the last time she saw her. She doesn't know if she's meant to be changing.

"You know, you don't have to do the filming if you don't want to."

Nancy looks up, confused at the sudden change of topic. Dad shakes his head. "I was just thinking about you and Ive when you were little. When we took you to the park that time."

Nancy remembers that. Dad hadn't known cameras were going to be there that early-Dad was doing stuff about the environment and they were going to a park, and since it was a weekend, they'd gone with him. Mum had been held up getting Ivan ready, so Dad had taken her and Elwen in the buggy earlier, when the cameras were setting up. Once Mum had arrived, carrying Ivan, she'd taken Nancy and Elwen off to play in the soil with Uncle George, while the cameras filmed Dad. The only thing Nancy remembers really is showing the camerawoman her sparkly red shoes, which she was very proud of, and had put on with her dress or skirt, despite Dad telling her they'd be playing in the mud (eventually, Mum had taken the shoes off her and let her squelch around in her bare feet), and then, when Mum arrived, nearly running the wrong way, and Dad calling her name so that she ran to catch up with the buggy. She was only about three-she mainly remembers playing in the soil and Uncle George telling her she'd be an It-Girl when she grew up, and tickling her.

Nancy shrugs. She's thought about it. "Will it be on the news?"

She's pretty sure most kids in her class know who Dad is-if they didn't beforehand, they definitely do now, thanks to Flo. Sure, after half-term, most of the staring seems to have died down a little, but Nancy still notices everyone in her class half-glances at her whenever they have to talk about parents or jobs. The other day, they had to talk about what they did at half-term in French and half the class had turned round by the time Nancy had finished her sentence (Joseph had actually fallen over the back of his chair.) She'd just said she went to Buckinghamshire, even though she's pretty sure most of them, apart from Lola, won't know what Chequers is.

Then again, probably a lot of them don't watch the news.

"I'd have to check. I think so-" Dad nibbles at his lip, watching her closely. "You don't have to do it, Nance."

"No, it's OK" Nancy surprises herself by saying. "I'll think about it."

"Are you sure?" Dad moves his arm behind her head.

Nancy chews her lip for a moment, nestles into her father's side, eyes watching the faint glow of her bedside light. She can see the cartoon on the wall that Dad gave her from a newspaper, with the words _I've left my father running the country!_ in a speech bubble. "Yeah" she says, closing her eyes, the light still glowing behind her eyelids.

* * *

George walks into his office, closes the door, turns round, and shrieks.

Peter, lounging majestically in his desk chair, gathers his long coat underneath him, and examines George with a raised eyebrow. "I can't remember the last time a man made that sound for me."

George, hand resting over his heart, rolls his eyes, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. "I wonder why."

Peter's eyebrows travel higher. "That rather hurts, Georgie."

"Maybe another reason."

Peter's eyebrows arch with something like a hint of a smile this time. George, cheeks still tinged pink, turns to hang up his coat. "Is there a reason for you to grace me with your presence?"

"Tut, tut." Peter sucks his teeth, examining his fingernails. "And here I thought I was coming to see a friend."

"I'm sure you're used to that." George sighs, leaning against the desk. Peter regards him under his eyelashes, as George tries not to notice the amusement curving his mouth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Peter manages to make the roll of his eyes last a full five seconds. George, tilting his head back, counts three more before he speaks.

"Well, I was planning to congratulate you on yesterday's PMQs, Georgie."

George considers this. "There's been some strong competition, but I think that has to be one of the most-yeah, I think that has to be _the_ most disingenuous congratulations I've heard today, so thank you."

He sits back in his chair, even as Peter claps a hand over his heart, affecting a mortally wounded expression.

"And I've spoken to three journalists this morning, so that really is quite an achievement, Peter."

Peter tuts. "Journalists. Dear little things. Any from the _Mirror?_ Alastair used to be frightfully entertaining."

"Imagine that."

"Rather a fan of yours' too, I hear."

"Dear, dear, Peter." George busies himself with his fountain pen, pulling a pile of already-signed documents towards him. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be the jealous type."

"Darling, have I ever needed to be?"

George glances up under his own eyelashes. "I couldn't imagine."

Peter leans over the desk. "You've already signed there, darling."

"What do you want?"

"Just what I said."

George snorts. Peter gives him a hurt look. George arches an eyebrow.

"I was hoping to gain your inestimable opinion on the subject, dear Gideon."

"Which is?"

"Don't play coy, Georgie." Peter drums his fingers on the desk. "Darling Eddie and that rosy-cheeked friend of yours'."

George meets Peter's gaze, deliberately keeps his own face composed. "On their views on party funding, you mean?"

Peter tsks, with a long, drawn-out sigh. "You're lucky you're endearing, darling."

"Where would I be if I wasn't, in your attic?"

"How very hurtful."

"What do you imagine my opinion would be?" George leans back. "I'd have thought you'd have been pouring honey into the ears of the son of the manse, if you want to follow what happened."

He doodles a llama on a sheet of paper then, perturbed by Peter's uncharacteristic silence lacking the context of a dramatic pause, he looks up. Peter is sitting very still in his seat, mouth very slightly parted.

"Granted, you're probably better at that than me." George returns to his llama, adding a dinosaur in for companionship. "Though, Graham showed me a couple of excerpts of that Coalition script when they were re-drafting it-if he sees that, you nagging him over aesthetic insecurities isn't really going to gain you any more ground with-"

He glances up to make sure Peter hasn't decided to swoon into a cardiac arrest simply for dramatic effect, and then glances up again. Peter is staring at him, mouth gaping slightly, hands frozen at the hooks of his coat.

George blinks. "Have I managed to kill you?"

Peter blinks slowly.

"Peter."

"May I take it to mean-" Peter speaks without removing his hands from the coat hooks. "That by the son of the manse, you mean our esteemed former Prime Minister?"

George considers. "Well, which of the two?"

Peter stretches to his full height ominously. George smirks. "I'd have chosen other adjectives."

Peter stares at him. George stares back. "What am I missing here?"

"Economic policy, for a start" Peter snaps out, apparently sufficiently undaunted. "But exactly why would said son of the manse be a source of information here?"

"Or anything else, really?" George replies, sweetly. "I don't know." He returns to the paper in front of him, adding some spikes to his stegosaurus' back. "Balls popped up yesterday and he told me Brown had wanted Miliband's number off him." He adds a tail, admires his own work for a moment, and then glances up to see Peter staring at him. "What?"

Peter takes a deep breath and turns to sweep to the door. "Consider this an intervention." He tosses his coat round, only to frown when it fails to sweep majestically behind him.

George frowns. "What was that?"

Peter bites his lip, assuming an expression of saintly patience. "I assumed I was wearing my greatcoat today" he announces, and then sweeps out of the door, with only the slightest trip on the material to mar his dignity.

* * *

David stares at the photo again. "You're sure?" he says, rhetorically, to Theresa sitting opposite him at the door.

She nods grimly.

"We believe they crossed into Syria sometime in the last 24 hours" Andrew says, still standing. "The chances of recovery once they've crossed the border are slim at best."

David takes a moment to look at the photo of the three girls in front of him. Each of them smiles out at the camera, brown eyes sparkling. He looks from those photos to the grainy CCTV footage in front of him-three separate frozen stills of the same girls standing under metal detectors, one of them wearing a deep purple jumper that's almost the exact same colour as one of Nancy's tops. She's got a leopard print scarf round her neck, that looks startlingly like a grey-leopard-print skirt his daughter recently grew out of, that Sam's tucked away in the wardrobe for Flo when she's older.

"Who's that one?" he says, pointing at the girl in the scarf.

The police commissioner leans over to look. "Shamima Begum. 15. Straight-A pupil, according to the school."

David looks at the other two pictures of the girl set in front of him. One shows her in a black hijab-a school photograph. She smiles shyly out of the picture. The other shows her with her hair uncovered, in a ponytail, taken in the back of a car. She's got the hint of make-up here, of an inexperienced hand having applied it, taking the first steps towards looking grown-up.

"We've had information that Amira Abase's family have appeared in some demonstrations-riots, that kind of thing" Theresa tells him. "That may have been around the time of Lee Rigby's murder. But there's nothing on the other girls' families."

David leans his head on his hand. "Have we had contact with the school?"

"Nicky's communicating with them right now. Bethnal Green are willing to cooperate."

"Do any of the papers know about the links with the riots?"

Craig, sitting next to him, sighs. "Probably. We've got some hints the Mail's picking up on it. But journalists will be all over them soon-their families, social media-they'll pick up on it."

"But we don't know for certain?"

Craig exchanges glances with Theresa. "No" he says slowly. "But....it's only a matter of time."

David looks at Andrew and Bernard. "Do we know how they-"

"Not for certain." Andrew folds and unfolds his hands.

"Officers have seized their laptops" Bernard chips in. "And family computers, internet devices they had access to, school computers-they're all being scanned. We currently can't locate their mobile phones-they may have them with them, which means they might dispose of them en route."

"Right." David looks back at the photos, the three schoolgirls looking back at him. "Is there any chance-"

Bernard and Andrew exchange glances.

"If they've crossed the border" says Andrew, slowly. "Recovering them would be almost impossible. Even them being able to return of their own will would be highly unlikely."

"Now that they've entered the country" Theresa says, moving one of the photographs towards her almost unconsciously. "We have to proceed on the basis they've joined the proscribed group. That means they have to be treated as a significant threat."

David glances down at the photos in front of him.

"Plus, the story's already in the public domain" Craig points out. "And for the public-we have to be careful. There's a chance this could whip up the anti-immigration sentiments."

"But they were born and raised here, weren't they?"

"But their families weren't" Craig points out, gently. "This won't sit well with the public." He pauses, very slightly. "Or with some in the party."

Andrew clears his throat. "We do have to consider them a threat, Prime Minister."

David takes a last look at the photographs in front of him that were, two weeks ago, of three schoolgirls.

Then he looks at Theresa and nods. "OK. Give them a classification." He pushes the photos away. "If they come back, they're going to have to face arrest as suspects for terrorist offences."

He looks away from the pictures staring up from the table, photos that soon will be emblazoned under every headline about three terrorists, the last moments of their lives as schoolgirls freeze-framed.

* * *

"It went all right, didn't it?" Ed glances at Anna, usually the one most eager to give him reassurance, and is relieved to see her smile isn't forced.

"Went well" Bob says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good for business, it'll reassure them-"

"The Madonna line was good" Rachel points out, looking up from her phone.

"That was Marc" Ed points out automatically, though it's likely Marc had to check the BBC for the current headlines; he doubts Marc watches the BRITS any more than he does.

But it's gone as well as it can, and Ed settles back into his seat, shoulders relaxing very slightly. Simon isn't with them today; if he was, Ed would have asked if he's got any closer to Ronnie Sullivan-he promised to get Ed a chat with him, which has been making Ed wriggle every time he thinks about it. He debates asking Cameron if he wants to see him today, but then presses his lips closed, as though the words might spill out without his consent. He and Cameron are unlikely to see each other today at all, naturally. It would stand out. Ed can't decide if the sick, swooping feeling that thought sends through his stomach is good or not.

Bob and Rachel share a quick glance, barely a flicker under their eyelashes. Awareness prickles on the back of Ed's neck. Oh God.

No. No, they can't-they can't _know-_

"It's just that-" Anna puts a hand on his arm, and Ed has to fight not to pull away.

"We wondered if you've thought any more about it yet" Rachel cuts in, ignoring the glare Anna aims at her. "What we-"

"About?"

Rachel gives him a straight stare beneath the carefully-angled blonde fringe. "About-what we asked?"

Ed feels his mouth dry. For a moment he sits still, struggling to find the view through the train window interesting.

"Well-" he says, trying to ignore the suddenly rapid thumping of his heart. "I-yeah, I have thought about it a bit."

There's a deliberate breath before Rachel says, clearly trying to let her gaze rest anywhere but on him and in the tone of a parent trying to probe a reluctant child into discussing a schoolday-"And?"

Ed looks at his shoes. "And-" He chews the corner of his lip. "I'm not sure."

Anna's grip on his sleeve tightens involuntarily. This time Ed, on the pretext of scratching his nose, pulls his arm firmly away from her.

"It's just that-" Ed looks away, his hand jumping slightly, the need to justify himself tangling over the sharp sudden rise of _No _that leaps up in his throat at the thought. "It'th jutht-wouldn't it jutht rake it all back up? The whole-two brothers thing?"

Anna and Rachel both jump very slightly, as though warding off an invisible jab.

"It's possible" Bob concedes, leaning forward, spreading his hands. "But look at it this way. In the public eye-it's still set in stone. If David appears in the campaign-it could help dispel that image for how it really is."

There's a short, uncomfortable silence.

"I-"

"It can't hurt to ask" Rachel jumps in, leaning forward, eyes steely above her red-lipsticked smile. "Just to test the waters a bit."

Ed opens and closes his mouth fruitlessly. "But-" He looks down at his knees, fighting with the words, with the fact his mouth doesn't even want them there for it to close around. "I-"

"Look" Bob says, when Ed's words trail off into one another, silence jagged with half-formed words. "There's still the polling-"

"You don't need to worry" Anna says too quickly, with another pat to Ed's arm that makes him shudder.

"Yeah, we don't, but there is a section of our-of our members-" Bob leans forward very carefully, examining his thumbs as he links them together. "There are sections of the party that feel a little less included. More of the moderate lot, perhaps some of the Blairites-" He pauses. "You know. The ones who-"

_Voted for-_

"We need to be bringing them in" Bob continues, after a brief, awkward pause. "It looks much better for long-term supporters this way. Makes them more likely to come out and vote. And-" Bob hesitates, but only for a moment. "It could help with your standing with the public, generally, once that part of the story's debunked, you know-"

Ed's stomach turns over.

But they're all looking at him, and he can remember those hustings, the podium seeming to sweat under his hands, trying not to let his eyes roam anywhere near the one person he was most aware of in the room, the words screaming from the papers like a siren.

He hears Cameron's voice again, rounded and bouncing with glee. _"It is-no, it's-it's not that bad-" Cameron leaning on the dispatch box, one hand gesturing towards Clegg, eyes darting straight back to Ed. "I mean-it's not like we're brothers or anything!"_

_Laughter bouncing off the ceiling of the Commons. The words sucked down under the roaring in his ears. And Cameron, shaking his head, grin brightening his blue eyes even more; "I think the-he-"_

_Cameron's eyes grinning at Ed across the chamber, blue and bright and dancing. "He certainly walked into that one!"_

He looks up sharply. "I'll think about it" he manages, and then he turns back to the window, hoping they'll see this as just part of his preparation and let him be, as they keep travelling towards the next event. Always to the next event.

* * *

Peter spins round as the door opens, a finger jabbing directly into the house. _"J'accuse."_

Alastair stands still, looks at him blearily for a few moments, and then reaches out to swing the door shut in his face.

He waits until the doorbell has let out three indignant shrieks in between a persistent, steady hammering, before he rolls his eyes and opens it again." What?"

Peter is standing in the exact same position, finger extended.

Alastair closes his eyes. "Don't give me that, you've just banged the fucking door for ten seconds straight."

Peter bows as he sweeps in. "My apologies for your suffering, but I assure you it is eclipsed by my own."

"Deli out of that lemon tea again?"

Peter draws himself up, lip quivering indignantly. "One day you too will be able to rely on only one beverage."

Alastair leans against the wall. "Peter, what the fuck are you talking about? I was taking a fucking nap."

Peter draws himself up to his full height this time, drawing in a long breath and slowly bringing his fingers together. Alastair waits a full ten seconds for him to say something.

"Right. Let yourself out when you feel like it."

He gets two steps up the stairs before he hears, in an injured tone, "I am perfectly willing to hear your firsthand account of your betrayal."

Alastair nearly counts to ten, decides he can't be bothered, and turns round. "What?"

Peter examines his fingernails. After another ten seconds of this, Alastair's turning round again when Peter says "I thought we agreed you would never be a Royal?"

Alastair blinks at him. "Sorry, is this one of the moments I'm going to have to remember when I get asked if there were any signs?"

"We, Alastair. The Royal We. When we decided together that Eddie might need a few little words from Scotland to help him along."

Alastair stares at him. "Peter, I'm fucking begging you, just speak English."

"Tony" is all Peter says.

"What about him?"

"Alastair." Peter holds up a hand. "I'm sorry to have to say this, but I'm afraid you have defenestrated me."

Alastair folds his arms. "One, you're not sorry. You've probably been fucking rehearsing this since last night. Two, if we're talking about Robertson's fucking loan again, I thought we agreed to stop bringing it up after that New Year's Eve party-"

Peter draws himself up, his lips compressing. "You _know_ what happens when people give me tequila."

"Peter, before I grab your cane and beat myself to death with it, what the hell are you talking about?"

Peter tilts his head, takes in a long breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "You. And Tony. Phoning Gordon."

Alastair blinks. "Wait, what?"

Peter stares at him. "What I just said."

They stare at each other for a moment before Peter's brow furrows. "Wait, you-"

Alastair stares at him, then, with what he congratulates himself is infinite patience, closes his eyes and gestures to the living room.

As Peter passes, Alastair reaches out and snatches the cane from under his coat. "Give me that."

"How did you know it was there?"

"You passed that thrift shop on the way here and you've basically eye-fucked the stupid thing every time you've gone past it for the last two fucking months."

* * *

St Mary Abbots Church is what people call small, but to Nancy, it seems huge. Flo thinks it's even bigger-when she was a baby, she used to stare up at the ceiling, her hands opening in little starfish bursts, gurgling and grinning away.

That was when they were younger, though. These days, they can't come to church here more than once or twice every other month, and at least one of those times Dad has to not be with them. It's quite weird when they're meant to be concentrating on praying to look to her side and see a protection officer sitting at the other end of the pew. Nancy sometimes wonders if they pray, too, but then reckons that if you're meant to be stopping anyone from coming near people, God would probably give you a pass.

Now, most of the time when Nancy's in St Mary Abbots Church, it's like this, when she's at school. They're listening to a Lent service that's going on forever, because Ash Wednesday was during half-term. Flo's class is across the aisle, a couple of rows in front of Nancy-their classes are both near the front, Flo's because she's one of the little ones and they can't see at the back, and Nancy's, because they're Year Six, and so they have to do the Passion Play this year on the last day of term. Miss Thompson's already trying to work out who should do what, and Nancy's already pretty sure she's going to end up as a narrator.

"Nah" says Lola, now squirming about on the pew next to her, ducking her head down so Rev. Craig can't see her. "They'll let you be something big. It's your last year."

"Yeah, but it's everyone's last year" Nancy says, bending forward to whisper behind her hymn book too.

Lola gives her a sidelong look, high blonde ponytail bouncing slightly as she bobs her head forward. "Yeah, but it's _you."_

Nancy feels her cheeks warm. She ducks forward, feeling an odd rush of sensation, as though everyone's looking at her, though a few are staring vaguely at Rev. Craig, pretending to listen, while the rest, like Nancy and Lola, duck down behind hymn books and whisper.

"Doesn't matter" she says, hoping she sounds convincingly careless about it. "Didn't mean I got to be Mary, did it?" Nancy had been slightly annoyed when she'd realised in Year Two she was going to leave the Infants without ever having been Mary in the Nativity, especially when she was still getting used to Daddy being Prime Minister, annoyed enough to raise the matter with her mother in the car one afternoon, which had ended with Mum pulling the car into a side street for a whole fifteen minutes for the sole purpose of telling Nancy that Daddy's job had nothing to do with the school nativity play, and if she found out Nancy had been saying anything like that at school, she'd go to Miss Henley herself and tell her not to put Nancy in the play at all, and that if she thought she was so much better than everyone else, she could just sit and watch them all.

(Nancy had got to be an angel. Elwen, when he was in Year Two, got to be Joseph, because of course he did.)

"Yeah, but this is your last year" Lola says off-handedly, raising the hymn book over her face. "They've got to give you something."

"Didn't matter for Bea." Bea had returned from school in a fit of high dudgeon the previous May after being informed that, for the Year Six end-of-year play production of Annie, she had been selected for the highly-coveted and possibly hastily-created role of Annie's pet dog, with no speaking lines whatsoever, but a creative assortment of barking.

Lola shrugs, her expression souring slightly, as it always does when Bea's name is mentioned. "Well, _your_ mum's not going to go and write an article about it, is she?"

Nancy doesn't want to get thrown out of the Lent service for starting an argument with Lola, and so she doesn't say anything to this. But, she thinks as she lowers her gaze to her hymn book as they scramble up to sing, this is why she can't tell Lola everything.

Definitely can't tell her about the news filming. Lola's great, but she can't get it the same way. She'd probably not be able to get why Nancy wasn't thrilled she was going to be on telly, shovelling porridge into her face. She doesn't know that Bea went mad when she saw that article of Auntie Sarah's, that she slammed her door and wouldn't come out of her room until Uncle Michael went and persuaded her. It took Bea ages to come out, and even when Auntie Sarah took her, Nancy and Liberty to the cinema to see _The Fault In Our Stars_ as a special treat, despite them being two and three years too young, Bea told Nancy it still didn't stop every other mother in the class glaring at her in the playground-"-like _I_ wrote the stupid article."

So Nancy just says "Not really. I mean, the main role's going to be Jesus, isn't it?"

"You never know" Lola remarks, catching their teacher's eye and lowering her gaze to her book. "They might make Jesus a girl this year."

* * *

"Have you finished _The Thick Of It_ yet?" Will's shovelling spaghetti bologneise into his mouth like it's going out of fashion.

"Season 4" Harry tells him, ladelling parmesan onto his own spaghetti. "Up to where Nicola's Leader Of The Opposition."

"Is she as shit as Miliband?"

"Oi" Pippa manages to say mildly, though Nick can tell from the squeeze of her hand under the table that her heart's not really in it.

"It's true, though" Will points out through a mouthful. "Even Dad says he's a weirdo."

"I said he was socially awkward" Nick points out, though he's not sure there's any point. It doesn't matter if the correct term's socially award. There's no nice way of putting things for most people. His sons see it the way the public sees it. Ed Miliband's a weirdo.

"How come you couldn't wait a day to go and see Alice?" Harry asks, changing the subject. "We could have gone too."

Nick feels Pippa's grip tighten and they exchange a glance. He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

"Well" he says, turning back to the table as Will drains his glass of juice, and Nick has the bizarre stab of a thought that that's the last time he'll drink anything without knowing this. "We wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

The boys glance up, showing a flicker of attention now. Harry's eyes sparkle behind his glasses. "Are we getting a day off school?"

Nick glances at Pippa, then turns back to their sons with a smile, trying to say the words as quickly as possible before they stick in his throat. "No, not exactly."

* * *

Ed tries not to drum his fingers as the train sets off. If he's honest, today feels like a good day. A better day than he would have expected.

Bob, at his side, nudges him. "We're just confirming which broadcasters will get the first news of the announcement."

Ed chews his lip, can't help but wriggle slightly in excitement. Even being asked to comment on that stupid dress can't dampen his spirits. (Ed doesn't know how anyone couldn't see that it's white and gold.)

"You know you're going to get it in the neck about Clegg's promise" Bob reminds him. "Just remember the lines-we're cutting, not abolishing-"

"Cutting, not abolishing-"

"If we work Clegg's name into it, that can serve as a way of highlighting the point-" Stewart reminds him, pulling towards him the draft of the speech Ed'll be making on a stage in an hour. "It'll knock the corners off the Lib Dems-"

Ed feels himself tense, his leg jumping, not wanting to stay still. He couldn't eat this morning for once not even thinking about the headlines from earlier in the week or the fact he and Balls have got to stand on a stage together.

He can't say he hasn't thought about Cameron either. But he's been trying not to think about him, at least.

"74%" Stewart reminds him with a wink. Ed lets himself smile, something warm opening in his chest and he looks down at the speech again, heart beating faster as his eyes roam over the next few lines. They're going to be able to do this. They'll actually be able to do this. And it'll help.

* * *

Nick sits on a bench, staring up at the sky. It always surprises him, but even in all the years since he left Oxford, every time he comes back, it looks the same.

Pippa's gone to meet a friend for coffee. She's seemed a little calmer today-she doesn't balk as much at the words, her grip in his hands a little easier. Maybe it's because telling the boys went well. Will had been quiet, while Harry had stared at his plate for a few moments, chewing his lip, before firing off a stream of questions, but slowly, one at a time, as they came to him.

The boys have gone well. But this is Alice, and Nick's asked Pippa if he can tell her on his own.

He sits waiting, coffee cup warm in his hands, knowing that she'll come scurrying up to him with her light, almost dancer's step, throw her arms around his neck, almost before he sees her. That she'll scramble up next to him, almost onto his lap, the way she used to when she was tiny. Nick remembers taking Alice to work with him as a little girl, her winding round his leg at a crackling of the microphone, him picking her up, all dark curls and freckles and big, big eyes.

Nick sips his coffee and waits.

* * *

Ed's in such a good mood, even the sight of Simon lazily sitting down opposite him can't dampen his spirits.

"Hi." He knows he's grinning, almost wriggling in his seat. Bob, next to him, gives him a nudge. Ed tries to sit still, but it's difficult. He stares at his speech unseeingly, excitement mounting in his chest.

"Hey." Simon leans back in his seat. "How's the speech going?"

"It'th good." Ed pushes his glasses back up his nose. He'll have to take them off before he gets off the train, but right now, he needs to be able to see. "Uth cutting the fees is financially rethponsible, pluth it will allow more people from working-class backgrounds the chanthe to go, because psychologically, it will feel like leth of a burden-"

Bob kicks him under the table. Ed feels the colour rush to his face and, with an effort, manages to stop.

Simon doesn't seem fazed, however. "Got a surprise for you."

Ed blinks. "What?" He glances at Bob, who just shrugs, apparently as bemused as Ed.

Simon just winks, then, slowly, holds out his phone.

Ed stares at him, then stares at the phone, then jumps. "It'th not?"

Simon just winks.

Ed takes the phone, hands trembling. "Hello?"

The familiar tones echo down the phone. "Is that Ed Miliband?"

Ed nearly screams out loud. He has to bite down on his lip, feels himself do an odd, delighted wriggle in his seat.

"Hello, Ronnie?" His voice is embarrassingly high-pitched.

There's a chuckle at the other end. "That's right."

Ed nearly leaps out of his seat. He almost slams a hand over his mouth. "Yes, it's Ed Miliband here-" He can barely speak, and immediately winces. _He already knows that, you tit._

"I've been hearing about you." Ronnie chuckles again. Ed almost squeaks.

"I am th-such a fan" he hears himself burble, cursing his lisp. He almost bounces in his seat. "I'm glad." Ronnie's voice is easy to listen to, and Ed feels his fingers, digging into his trousers, slowly relax. "Always been a snooker fan?"

"Yeth, I've always loved snooker!" Ed forgets about the lisp. He almost bounces again. "H-how are you doing?" he blurts out, then cringes, trying to ignore the squeal of delight wanting to leap out of his mouth.

"I'm doing fantastic." Ronnie's voice sounds gently amused, but not in a way that leaves Ed nervous or stammering.

(He stumbles with Cameron. But in an entirely different way.)

(Like what Ed imagines the breath before a bungee jump to be like.)

"Training hard-nothing compared to what you're doing here-"

"And when's the world championship-"

"Starts in April-finishes just before the election, actually-"

"Do you remember the Steve Davis versus Dennis Taylor final?" Ed bursts out before he can have to let Ronnie go.

"Of course-"

"I wanted Dennith to win!" Ed nearly cringes at his own excitement. He can remember Dad letting him stay up to watch it, as he's regaled Simon with several times now.

"Well, that's where we have to part company, mate-"

"Oh." Ed manages to calm himself very slightly. "You wanted Steve to win-"

"Well, it was a close-run thing-"

"Yes-" Ed glances over his shoulder to see Bob frantically tapping his watch. Disappointment sinks in his chest. He doesn't want to have to say goodbye to Ronnie just yet.

"Would you like a game one day?"

Ed very nearly kicks himself. Oh God. Oh God.

"Yeah, that would be good." Ronnie chuckles at the other end of the phone. Ed prays with everything he has that he's not laughing at him, then his eyes open wide because holy shit, _Ronnie Sullivan just agreed to have a game with him._

"Th-snooker or pool?" He barely hears himself blurt it out over the roaring of his heartbeat. "Probably pool betht for me-"

"Sure." Ronnie chuckles again. "Have your guys call mine, we'll set it up-"

"Yeah, that would be _brilliant."_ Ed has to turn away, aware that he's grinning from ear to ear. "Thank you. Thank you-"

"Take care of yourself."

"You too. You too-I mean-yeth-" Ed has to ram a hand over his mouth to stop himself squealing.

"See you soon."

"Bye!" Ed tries to ignore the fact his voice is at least two octaves higher than usual.

He can feel the beam splitting his face in two as he hands the phone back to Simon, who raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"He'th th-such a nithe man!"

Fuck. Ed can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks from his neck, but even that can't seem to wipe the insane grin off his face.

"Glad you enjoyed it" Simon says, taking the phone back with a look of amusement.

"He'th tho nithe!" Ed almost wriggles in his seat. "He offered me a game!"

Bob sighs. "I'm thrilled." He nudges Ed in the side. "It's great, really, it is, but you need to go over-"

Ed nods, still blissfully replaying the conversation in his head. "He offered me a game" he repeats, happily, to no one in particular, before pulling the speech towards him to work on the last few lines.

* * *

"Ali-"

"Don't fucking Ali me." Alastair nearly throws the phone across the room. "I've rung you six fucking times."

"Middle East time, Ali."

"Yeah, why didn't you fucking tell me you'd gone ahead and called Gordon?"

There's a silence. Then, "Ali-"

"Stop with the Ali."

Tony tries to laugh, the sound a little too light. "Well, what else do I call you?"

"Why didn't you fucking tell me?"

There's a sigh. A slight pause. Tony getting the words ready in his mouth.

_"I can't fucking believe this. I cannot fucking believe you are going to let him push you out-"_

_"It's not letting him-not letting him do that-"_

_"Well, you know what, you might as fucking well do it, because he and his fucking minions have got you bent in half over your own fucking desk and they're fucking you, and they're not just fucking you, they're fucking you with your own fucking dildo that they fucking stole from your fucking wine cellar."_

_"Thanks for the image, Ali."_

_"And you know what else, they're doing it and then pulling out and fucking coming over a picture of your fucking wife and you're fucking letting them." His foot had hit the desk, the pain a dull echo, not strong enough. "You're letting them fuck you over because of you and Gordon. You're letting them fuck your entire government, and you're standing there and letting him do it, and none of us can fucking say why."_

"Don't." Alastair becomes aware he's gripping the phone tightly. "Don't. Fucking tell me."

"Ali-" Tony's voice breaks off. "Ali. It wasn't-this was me and Gordon."

"No, we asked you to speak to Gordon-"

 _(_ "You know, you're the one to speak to him. Could you do that?"

A pause. Then, "Mebbe."

"Gordon. Could you do that?"

"You're the one who gives the advice. Why not you?"

"Because he's-because your Miliband won, not mine."

Silence.)

"Yes." Tony's voice is sharper, sharpening. "It was me and Gordon."

("So you're asking me to help you?"

A swallow. "I'm asking you to help the party."

"Is that what you were doing? Last time?"

"I thought that was what you wanted me to do last time.")

"Tony." Alastair stops, hand squeezing the back of his chair. "Tony. There isn't a-fuck, this is-there isn't a you and Gordon anymore."

There's a long silence.

_"We're back in."_

_"Yeah, no fucking thanks to him."_

_"We're back in, Ali."_

_"And he's going to want you out in a week."_

Alastair closes his eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tony's voice, to anyone else, would have been smooth. Except, perhaps, to Gordon.

"You're the one who couldn't cut him off your fucking hip. Christ, with the gay lovers shit in that fucking book of yours'-"

"What?" Tony's voice catches itself very slightly. "Where did that come from?"

Alastair frowns. "From your fucking book. Where else? Though with that shit about you flirting with Murdoch, I'd fucking wonder."

("What are you saying, Tony?"

"I thought you could talk to him."

"What, because you think it was the same?" A snort, almost a laugh.

A pause, the phone slipping a little in his hand.

"No. Not quite the same. But-"

"But-"

"Not different enough.")

There's a moment of breath before Tony says "Sorry, Ali" and almost anyone else would forget it.

* * *

Alice doesn't cry.

She sits quietly for a moment after Nick tells her, then pulls her legs up, rests her chin on her knees. She sits next to him, staring out over the city. Pippa's hand squeezes her shoulder gently.

Nick almost reaches out to her, but not quite. Instead, he watches her, her childhood curls now long dark waves blowing in the wind, freckles standing out on her pale cheeks, eyes big and dark but dry.

Then her head moves to rest against his shoulder. Nick puts his arm around her shoulders, and waits. They sit there for a while, in silence.

Then Alice asks a question. Then, haltingly, another. Then she sits up, still nestled into his side, but looking up now, listening.

She doesn't cry.

* * *

"Are you looking forward to secondary school?"

Nancy, who's finishing off some hand-stitching on Elwen's hat, looks up at where Jodie's sitting in the armchair. "I guess." She chews her lip, having been happily absorbed in trying to tie off a thread.

"Kind of" she manages after a few moments, which is as close as she can come to the truth, which is that secondary school, while it's looming ahead, is smaller, further off than Dad's election. Nancy already knows she'll be going to a different school in September. She doesn't know where she'll be living, though.

"Will you miss St Mary Abbots?"

Nancy's never really thought about it properly. She might not say she loved school, exactly, but she doesn't mind it. She knows St Mary Abbots. She doesn't just know it because it's her school. It's small enough that she knows her way around absolutely everywhere, knows all the teachers. There are only 30 kids in her year and she knows most of the ones in Elwen's too. They go to the same church too, or they used to. It's all familiar.

"I think so." She pulls out her ponytail, shaking her hair loose over her school sweatshirt. "But-it'll be fine."

Jodie nods quietly. "Mmm."

Nancy's met Jodie a few times now. She started seeing her about two years ago, every other week at first. Now Nancy only needs to see her every couple of months-sometimes more if something big's going on. Elwen goes too, but on different days, and he sees someone else-Nancy's occasionally sat in the waiting room of the Beethoven Centre, looking up at the barred balcony surrounding the lobby. Flo comes along every so often too, but she does playing with toys and colouring in with her therapist, which Nancy and Elwen used to do when they were little.

"But it's lucky a few of them will go to your next school" Jodie points out, gently.

Nancy chews her lip. "Maybe. Bea was the only one from her year. Who went to Grey Coat, I mean."

"Do you know how many went to Lady Margaret?"

Nancy thinks, pulling her bottom lip in. "Don't know, really."

"Lots of people go to a new school without knowing anyone" Jodie says. "You know it'll be the same for loads of the others. Probably most of them."

"Yeah, but-" Nancy sighs, slides her needle back and forth through her loosened thread. "They're-you know."

Jodie waits, patiently. Nancy pulls the needle tight, tying off the knot carefully.

"Everyone'll know" she says, looking up after a moment. "Who Dad is."

Jodie nods, adjusting her glasses carefully under her short, spiked hair. She never looks shocked, so far. When she's feeling particularly irritated, Nancy sometimes amuses herself by wondering what she could actually say to wind Jodie up.

But then, Jodie's all right. And Nancy knows that Mum wants her to have someone to talk to.

_"It's all right to use the pencils to say what you like." Nib of the pencil tearing through the paper. Hands over her ears. Screaming, tears wet on her cheeks._

"Everyone knows who Bea's is" Nancy says now, needing to press the point home. "At Grey Coat. They're not all mean to her, but some of them were."

"And you think they might do the same to you?"

Jodie's all right, but she really has to push things sometimes. _Obviously_ , Nancy's thinking the same thing could happen to her. Any idiot could tell that.

"Some girls in her class let Bea walk to the train station with them and then just left her there" she says instead. "When she started last year."

Jodie raises an eyebrow. "How are things for Bea, now?"

Nancy shrugs. "All right. She has friends. People still say stuff about her dad, sometimes. Or just stare. You know. On Parents' Evening, and everything."

"We've talked about it, before, haven't we? That there are always going to be people like that?" Jodie chews her pen. "Maybe, when it gets nearer the time, we could work out some things you might say, if people ask you anything you don't want to answer?"

Nancy tries very hard not to roll her eyes. She knows Jodie's trying to help, but it's like most grown-ups were never kids.

"Have your mum and dad talked to you about the election?"

Nancy shrugs. "Yeah. I mean, we kind of knew what it meant anyway. It'll just-we won't know until the day, and then it's SATs the next week. It figures."

Jodie nods. "I know it can't help much, but the important thing to remember, I think, is that all that is for your mum and dad to worry about, and not you."

"I'm not worried about it" Nancy explains. It's not like _she's_ going to be sorting out moving house or anything. "I just.....I want to know."

Jodie nods. "That must be difficult. And it's totally normal to feel frustrated about it. I know I can't tell you how it'll all turn out, but I can tell you I'm certain your mum and dad will make it as easy for you as possible."

Nancy hadn't really expected anything else. Still, it's not like Jodie can see the future.

Nancy eyes her for a moment. She sometimes wonders if Jodie goes home and tells her husband or wife or whoever "Oh, guess what, I had the Prime Minister's kid in my office again today." Probably not. Mum's told her a whole bunch of things about confidentiality and that sort of stuff, which is supposed to mean Nancy can say whatever she wants. But still. Nancy wonders if Jodie actually likes Dad. Or if she'd like him if she wasn't not allowed to hate him, or at least, not in front of Nancy. This, oddly, makes her think of Maddy. Then again, Bea didn't know Mr Wallace hated her dad until she saw him on Newsround carrying a sign that said GOVE OUT. (Nancy had eyed Mr Wallace very carefully when he was her teacher last year, but if he'd thought the same about Nancy's dad, he'd never given anything away.)

"We haven't really talked about Ivan today" says Jodie carefully, the sound of her brother's name yanking Nancy back into the room.

"Oh. Yeah-"

"And that's fine" Jodie says quickly, holding up a hand. "it's just that-it's pretty normal, especially when there are changes happening, for someone to find themselves thinking about the person they miss. And that happens a lot."

Nancy chews her lip. The truth is, she never really misses Ivan more or less. She just misses him. It's like a loose tooth in the back of your mouth, or a bruise on your arm. Sometimes, you notice more, but it's always there.

"I mean-" She stops, frowning, tugging at the hat. "I guess-it's weird. Thinking about Ive-when I won't-"

She plays with Elwen's hat. "I'll be somewhere new. You know, school. Not where I was when Ive died."

"That's normal to think about."

"I mean-I'm older now, but I got older than Ive years ago, so that doesn't matter." Mum cried on Nancy's seventh birthday. She doesn't know Nancy knows that.

"But it's normal you'd think about Ive." Jodie sits up straight in her chair. "Going to secondary school is a big deal for anybody, especially when you're the first one. It's perfectly usual to think about Ivan."

Nancy looks up. "You mean, because he's not here?"

Jodie doesn't flinch. "It's usual to feel out of sorts because Ivan won't go to secondary school."

Nancy turns away, watches the bubbles rush up the circular fish tank Jodie keeps in the corner. The fish chase them higher and higher, not knowing they'll never catch up.

"No" she says quickly, still watching the fish keep trying, even against the tide. "Ive would never have gone to secondary school, anyway."

* * *

Ed's on a high. Or what Ed imagines a high would feel like. He's never actually been high before.

Ed is on something resembling a high.

"Good day?" Simon asks him, eyeing him casually as they clink their glasses together. Ed can feel Bob's gaze on him from a few tables away.

"Pretty much" he says, carefully. "We're getting the message acroth-that people should athk themselves if they're really happy with the Tories." Ed personally would like to focus more on the inequality issues, and the bigger picture that they could change here, but Greg's quite firm on the strategy at the moment. But they'll get onto that.

Simon nods. "And the polls seem to be more in your favour today."

Ed definitely feels Bob's gaze now.

"The only poll I'm worried about is the one on election day." Ed manages to deliver the line with a small smile.

"We're consistently level pacing" Stan had told them on the conference call this morning. "If anything, Cameron needs to be ahead. He needs to do more than we do to get a majority."

"That's all very well" Simon says. Ed pulls off his tie, taking another sip of his Coke, feeling his brow furrow as he takes in Simon's wine. "But there are still a lot of issues for some people with your leadership."

The straw catches between Ed's teeth. "At the end of the day, the voters will have to make up their minds" he says, a little too quickly.

"But there've been some conflicts within your own party." Simon manages to not take his eyes off Ed once as he sips his wine. "Especially regarding your brother."

Ed feels himself shudder slightly, as though he's just been dropped from a great height.

"And you-I mean, was politics a frequent topic of discussion between you when you were younger?"

Ed swallows, his mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry. "Around the dinner table, yeah."

_"Dad-" David's laughing, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "How are you going to persuade anyone of that?"_

_"David, you're missing the point-"_

_"No-" Edward would have stopped, eager, nervous to listen. But David just laughs lightly, easily, taking another forkful of potatoes. "In the real world, Dad-we've got to give something to appeal to people-"_

_"But when people understand that we're all the beneficiaries of a bigger picture-"_

_David turns with a quirk of his mouth, to regard Edward with some amusement over his glasses. Edward trails off, pushing his own glasses back onto his nose, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. Even Dad's glancing at him, with an amused smile, his eyes shining when he looks at David._

_"That's a point, Edward" David says, managing to make the words careless enough to sting. "But-it's a pretty young view. Idealistic."_

_Edward opens his mouth, but nothing comes out._

_"You'll grow out of that" David says, David, who's just finished his first term at Oxford, who came back from a year in America with Dad looking taller, eyes brighter, Dad's gaze resting on him with his eyes behind his glasses looking brighter than ever._

"What did the two of you disagree about?" Simon's leaning back in his chair, but his eyes over his glass are sharp.

"I-I wouldn't th-say there was a pattern-" Ed can feel Bob watching him. Simon's eyebrow arches very slightly. From this angle, in this light, his smile could almost look a bit like David's. Or like Cameron's.

"If you're saying can you read what happened later-" His voice nearly cracks, but not quite. "Into what we were arguing about or dithcuthing when we were teenagers-" He bangs the glass down on the table a little too hard, almost snapping the last words out before changing his mind, pushing the rim of the glass a little too hard against his lips, hoping his hand doesn't shake as the liquid touches his tongue without him tasting it.

_David's looking away from him. Ed stands there, heart thudding, the words ringing silently through the room between them._

_Ed opens his mouth, breath rasping in his throat, but the words crumble before he can shape them into sounds. He stares blankly at the floor, eyes clinging to a wooden toy xylophone in amongst the toys scattered over the rug in the boys' brightly-coloured playroom, trying to remember if that was one he bought, and then realising he can't remember what gifts he bought them._

"But-" Simon leans forward slightly, Ed's hand still curled all too tightly around his glass. "It would be fair to say there was a rift growing between you and your brother for some time? Once you began advising Brown, the Blairies and the Brownites stuff, got out of your brother's shadow a bit-"

_Be careful. Be careful._

"Well, I wouldn't dethcribe it as a rift." Ed lifts the glass and sets it down again without taking a sip. "You want to be careful about thith-you don't want to-exaggerate the differentheth-" He tries for a laugh, but the sound is taut, as though it's being stretched out of his throat. "I've got-huge admiration for him and he's got very good progrethive politics-"

The lisp thickens the words, almost taunting him.

"Tho-it'th a differenth of degrees, not abtholuteth-"

"But you _did_ challenge your brother." Simon leans forward over his wine, eyes sharp despite the drink. "That was huge. That was a huge move."

"Yeth, it-it was, but-"

"And so if you're now saying-" Simon eyes him closely, gaze roaming over Ed's face. "You and your brother weren't that different after all-well-" Simon spreads his hands. "It just looks like a bad case of sibling _rivalry_ then, doesn't it?"

Ed puts his glass down a little too hard. "OK. Don't do it retrothpectively, then."

Simon's mouth twitches slightly. Ed's heart is quickening.

"Thith is without comment on him" he says, a little louder. "But look at how I've moved Labour on from New Labour."

Simon quirks an eyebrow. "Tell me."

Ed launches into the list almost with relief; this he can do, at least. "On Murdoch, I've moved Labour on. On th-Syria, on inequality. On the reth-responsibilities of the rich and powerful, and the accountability of companieth and corporationth-" Ed's aware his lisp is running away with him, trying to catch up with his words-"-on what I call _rethponthible capitalism,_ I've moved Labour on."

"You say inequality." Simon taps his wine glass casually with his finger. As though this is just a _thing._ Just another conversation. "Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"The gap between the rich and poor-" Ed tries not to sound almost scornfully astonished. "I care about it."

"And New Labour didn't?" Simon's gaze is sharp, head on one side, taking Ed in.

Ed breathes slowly, suddenly careful, awareness tightening in his chest. "Well-it was more that-as long as the people at the bottom are doing OK-does the gap matter?" He can feel the words running away with him again. "But the gap abtholutely matters to me." He can feel his heart beating more steadily with the words now, with how certain he is. "New Labour were too th-sanguine about it. The Conth-servatives-"

He bites his lip. Sees Cameron's arched eyebrow again across the chamber, that curl of his lip.

"The Conthervatives don't _care_ about it" he says, a little louder than he needs to, and reaches to take another gulp of his Coke, hoping Simon doesn't notice his hand shake.

"But when you stood against your brother-you went against your brother-" Simon lets the words hang there between them, watches Ed's face. "Did you realise what-well, what you were risking?"

Ed's fingers drum back and forth nervously. He takes another gulp of Coke without tasting it.

"I knew it wath a big decision at the time" he says slowly. "But-it was an even bigger decision."

_"But-why are you going away?" Ed feels wrong-footed, the way he did as a child when he was two steps behind the conversation. "You usually-you usually want one of us to go with you."_

_His mother, taking a sip of tea, lowers her cup, her eyes narrowing to take in Ed over the rim, until Ed feels his cheeks warm, wants to look away. "I think you've got enough on your plates, don't you?"_

"It had-bigger ramifications for my family-"

He swallows hard, forces the words out. "And-for my relationship with-with David-than I anticipated."

_"I-I thought you th-said-you were all right. About-David and I."_

_Marion eyes him, long and hard over her cup, until Ed feels his cheeks burning, has to look away, staring unseeingly at a photograph of the three of them-him, David and Dad, taken in Boston-that Mum keeps on her bookshelf. David's face stares out at him, wreathed in a grin. Ed's own smile is smaller, quieter, hiding below his brother's._

_Marion doesn't look away from him, even as Ed keeps steadfastly looking away from her."And David thought you were all right beforehand."_

"What's your relationship like now?" Simon's voice is quieter.

Ed clears his throat. Swallows hard, even though his mouth's dry.

"It'th a massive, massive amount better than it was-"

Rachel's voice, eyes steely on his. _It can't hurt to ask._

"Math-sive."

He last phoned David at Christmas, didn't he? Or was it-was it before-was it Sam's birthday?

"And it's partly because he's got his own thing he's doing in New York, I'm doing my own thing-"

It can't have been Sam's birthday. That was ages ago.

"-so that makes it a lot-better and easier." Another sip of Coke. Praying Simon can't see his hand shaking.

"What was it like at its' worst?"

The rim of the glass presses against Ed's lip.

_David has put Sam back in Ed's arms-Ed juggles him a little awkwardly, the baby still feeling oddly uncomfortable there, even though he's done nothing but sleep, and David managed to hold him as if he was born himself doing it._

_"You could th-stay" he blurts out, trying to juggle Sam a little more enthusiastically, painfully aware David hasn't sat down, hasn't even taken his coat off. "You could-we could-Juthtine will be back soon, you could-"_

_David's mouth curls, as though he's had to fight back a laugh, but something else flickers in his eyes as he looks away. "I don't think that would be a very good idea, do you?"_

Ed looks away from Simon. His teeth clink on the rim of the glass and when he speaks, his voice seems to have got lost in his throat. "Hard."

"Were you talking?"

Ed's fingers are squeezing the edge of the table. "Yeah-"

_"We could meet up." Ed presses the point eagerly, as though the words could tangle around his brother's shoulders, make him stay in the hall a little longer. "The four of uth. If you're going to Mum'th on th-Sunday, we could-"_

_"I think we've got plans on Sunday." David's already reaching for the front door. Ed, even though he'd been too relieved to put Sam down in his Moses basket, rocks slightly, hands fumbling in his pockets, unsure what to do with them._

_"Well-we could-I could call you-for when Louise wants to meet th-Sam, she hasn't seen him yet-"_

_David laughs then. Very slightly, almost like a gasp, with a little shake of the head. His hand fastens on the catch of the door, then, as though the words yank themselves out at the last moment, he pulls back and turns round to Ed._

_"Louise" he says, looking his younger brother in the eyes very deliberately, leaving Ed to stare back helplessly. "Does not want to see your baby."_

"But it was difficult. Becauthe, you know-the clotheneth of the result-" Ed pushes the glass away, then pulls it towards him again. "He obviouthly felt very bruised-"

"Did he resent you?"

Ed's fingers tighten.

"Look, I would always th-say he tried to be incredibly understanding about it-"

The glass squeaks against the table.

"But he felt very bruised by what happened."

_"Why didn't you tell me?" Ed's words are small, thin, as though they're squeezing out of his throat._

_"What?"_

_"You're going to California." Ed's pacing back and forth without realising it. He sits down on the edge of the bed, one hand knotting in his hair. "For Chrithmath. You're leaving m-you're leaving uth here."_

_You didn't even tell me._

_"Louise's parents thought it would be a nice idea." David's words are light, easy, careful. The way everything is for David._

_(The way it is for Blair, for Cameron, and that's why none of them fucking understand-)_

_"We haven't seen them in a while. And it'd be good for the boys too. To get away."_

_The words sting in Ed's chest._

_"I thought we'd be th-seeing you" he blurts out. "At Chrithtmath. And you've-you've let-Louise has just decided-"_

_He stops because David's laughing. Ed stares at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes huge and dark, making him look younger than ever._

_David's voice, when he hears it, is dark with amusement. "You're talking about Louise deciding things?"_

_Ed watches the colour rise slowly to his own cheeks, then, just as quickly, drain from them._

"Did he think-" Simon spreads his hands. "I mean, I'm just conjecturing here, but did he think you wouldn't win, so it was OK for you to stand?"

Ed stares at the glass, aware of an ominous prickling behind his eyes.

"No, I don't think th-so. I-I think he was always-"

_"I-I didn't-" His voice is weakly defiant, and he can picture the smirk on David's face hearing it. "If you're talking about-"_

"More fearful than I was about-about what the implications would be."

_"And anyway." David's voice is careless again, as if Ed might as well not have spoken. As if his words might not exist. "It was my idea. I suggested it. I thought it might be nice, for the family, you know."_

_Family. _ _The word aches and swells in Ed's throat._

_"Well." He swallows, but the ache doesn't go away. "That'th-I hope you-I hope you have a good time."_

_Another slight laugh. "I'm sure we will."_

_Ed turns away from the mirror, eyes suddenly burning. He blinks, hard, as the hot liquid seeps out, one tear, then two down his cheek, sniffs, trying to steady his voice._

"If you win-" Simon sits back in his chair. "Will you invite your brother back? To play a role?"

Ed swallows, tries to pull his thoughts back together. He can answer this.

"I think-I think he's doing his own thing-I've-I've always th-said any antithipation of things I might do as prime minithter is a measuring the curtains question." That's Justine's phrase, not his, but-"I don't do it. He's-"

_"Balls wants your job." Justine's voice grates in his ear. "You know he does."_

_"I know." Ed's foot shoves aside one of Daniel's toys-they seem to scatter over the carpet. He likes them away, because when they're there, they seem to crowd into his head, smothering his thoughts._

_"Putting someone who wants your job in as Chancellor-"_

_"Well, I don't exactly have anyone elthe."_

_A pause. He knows Justine's paused deliberately, the way she does in court. As though everyone will come round to her argument once they've had the chance to have a good, long think. It curls irritatingly in Ed's chest._

_"Maybe if you explained it to David-"_

_Ed takes in a long breath, but Justine stops as surely as if he'd shouted._

_"David" he says, tightly, fingers digging into his hair almost hard enough to hurt. "Doesn't want it."_

_Another pause. Ed stares at his shoes, weighing it up. Then-_

_"Maybe if I talked to him-"_

_And at that, Ed's head shoots up and he stares at her, almost incredulous, laughter spilling out of his mouth. Justine stares back at him, her eyes wider than ever, and Ed realises she was being serious, and that makes him laugh harder than ever, so that he doesn't cry._

_"You?" _ _He stares at her, eyes burning, laughter seizing his body. "You talk to him? You?"_

_Justine stares at him. Ed sits there, and then shoves his face into his hands, body shaking with laughter, until he's scared it might not stop._

"He's doing his job." Ed only just has to force the words out, takes another gulp of Coke to make them easier. "I'm getting on with mine."

Simon leans forward, eyes narrowing now, waiting until Ed has a mouthful of Coke to ask the question. "Has the massive family split been worth it, then?"

Ed nearly chokes. The glass slips in his fingers and he nearly drops it

"Careful" Simon says, warningly, in a tone that makes Ed want to hit him.

Slowly, he reaches forward, places the glass on the table. Hopes Simon can't see his fingers shaking.

"Your words, "math-ssive thplit."" He tries to smile, aware he has to fight his mouth into place. Say it. It's not a split. It's-it's a disagreement. It's a-it's unfortunate-it's-

_Louise is sobbing, shoulders shaking, head buried in David's neck, as he holds her. Douglas' hand is on her shoulder, consolingly, murmuring to her. There's a circle around them, of aides and other MPs, protective, all either murmuring to each other or to her. Some have hands on her back, on her arm. Others pat David, one hand lingering on his elbow. But David's only looking at Louise. When she lifts her head, he cradles her face in between his palms, stroking her cheeks. Their noses press together as she stares back at him. They don't kiss, but they don't need to. Louise huddles into him, like a wounded gazelle, drawing sympathetic pats and rubs of the shoulder, but she leans into David as if he's the only thing in the world that matters._

"Do I-" Ed's throat seems swollen. He shakes his head, tries again. "Do I feel-in my heart of hearts-"

_"Ed-"_

_"David-"_

_"Ed, it's your night-"_

_"David, what have I done to David?"_

"Do I feel-"

_Ed steps forward, not knowing what he wants to do, and David's hand cradles Louise's head closer, as though shielding her from him._

_"I-can we-is there anything we can-" Justine's standing next to him, looking entirely too happy, and then stepping cautiously towards the circle herself. Before Ed can do anything, Justine's hand has reached out._

"Do I feel, in my heart of hearts, it was right?"

_Before Ed can do anything, Justine's hand has reached out, and then Louise's head is rearing up like a tiger, the circle around her tightening protectively, and Ed watches as Justine falls back, her hand moving a second too late to her pregnant stomach, as though she's forgotten it's there, and Louise's voice is shattering in the air between them, the jagged words slicing the room in two. "Don't you fucking touch me."_

"The answer is-" Ed takes a sip of Coke, noticing it's too warm to drink. His eyelashes tremble with something hot, pushing behind his eyes. "I do."

Simon's silent, looking closely at him. "Are you all right?"

_"I-" Justine glances at Ed, bewildered. As though she's genuinely bewildered._

_Ed turns back to the circle, trying to find his brother's face through them all. Douglas holds out a hand. "Ed-"_

_"Get fucked, Miliband." The words burn in the air between them, making Ed jump. A widening of the circle reveals Jon, eyes blazing, a hand on David's shoulder. "Go on. You got what you wanted, now fuck off."_

_There's a murmuring but no one else says anything._

_"I-" Ed looks to David's face. David doesn't look away. It would have been better if he'd looked away._

_"David?"_

_"Just go, Ed." It was Douglas' voice. Low and quiet and horribly, horribly calm. Ed shakes his head, staring at his brother._

_"David?"_

_David doesn't look away from him. Just stares at him._

_He doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything at all._

"How does your mum cope with it?"

Simon's question brings Ed's gaze snapping back to the table. He stares at Simon, shaking his head slightly.

"The fallout of it all between you?" Simon's gaze rests on his face. Ed looks away, hand wrapping around his glass.

"She'th pretty stoical." His voice, thank God, is clear. "She'th been through worthse."

_"I jutht-wanted to know how she ith, Auntie."_

_A silence. Then "I think she's as well as can be expected, Edward, don't you?"_

Simon's mouth quirks slightly. "Like what?"

Something seizes in Ed's chest then, his fingers squeezing the glass hard.

_"Auntie-I-could you jutht tell her-"_

_A small laugh. "You're good at just telling people things, Edward?"_

_A shout from in the background, his aunt's voice, hurried, rushed-"Leo-"_

_"I hope you're happy" comes a man's voice down the phone. "I've never seen your mother like this. Right now, your name is absolutely in the gutter."_

_Ed stares at the phone, squeezing his eyes shut._

_"Leo-" He can hear someone fumbling with the phone._

_Ed's cheeks colour. "What do you mean?"_

_"You always were. Especially yourself." Hadessa's accented voice fills his ear again, making something fill Ed's throat. "Perhaps you should just tell yourself why she's so upset, Edward."_

_"Look." Ed swallows. "She-jutht-it wath-we agreed-David and I agreed-"_

_He knows immediately it's the wrong thing to say. There's a silence, before Hadessa laughs, long and low._

_"Oh, you agreed. You definitely agreed. At least that's one thing you agree on."_

_"That'th not-that'th-"_

_"Still, you got what you wanted, didn't you, Edward? Why on earth are you on the phone?"_

_Ed squeezes his eyes shut. "I-"_

_"Well done, Edward." Hadessa's voice almost sounds genuine. "You got just what you've wanted since you were a little boy."_

_Ed stares in the mirror, confusion crumpling his brow._

_Then his aunt's voice says his name again, as Ed stares at his own reflection, dark eyes staring back as if desperate to see something else._

"Ed?" Simon's voice is light, as though something's funny. As though it's a game. "Like what?"

_"David, what have I done to David?"_

_"You did always want to be noticed, didn't you, Edward?"_

Ed's cheeks flush, and he almost shoves the glass away from him.

"I'd say what happened in the second world war" he almost snaps out, and then, before he can say anything else, he's wheeling away from Simon, more words rearing up in his chest, hot and angry, hand grasping in his phone for his pocket, fingers already searching for Cameron's number.

"Excuse me-" A young girl almost runs the last few steps up to their table, ponytail bobbing. "Are you Ed Miliband?"

Ed's fingers pause, opening a text message to Cameron.

"Yeth" he says, not looking at Simon, forcing a beam."Yeth, I am."

He'll text Cameron later. He holds onto the thought in his mind, determinedly not looking at Simon, forcing a smile as the girl asks for a picture, as she pulls out her phone, leaning in next to him with a matching grin for the camera.

_You did always want to be noticed, didn't you, Edward?_

* * *

"Have you decided on the filming thing yet?" Nancy pushes her scooter, the stones crunching beneath the wheels.

Elwen glances up at her from where he's fighting his own scooter, Chequers towering over them. The day's overcast but dry, and they're both zipped into warm coats. Mum and Dad like them to spend time outside whenever it's not actively pouring down-plus this way, the pool feels warmer later. They're waiting for Mum to bring Flo out before they can head into the gardens.

"What filming?" Elwen, typically, sounds fairly untroubled.

"The one for Dad. You know, for the election." Nancy pushes off on her scooter again.

"Oh." Elwen shrugs. "Probably. I mean, no one's going to see our faces, right?"

Nancy crinkles her nose at him. Now that Elwen's bigger, she can talk to him about some things-about 50% of the time at least. Especially things to do with Dad. Then again, 50% of the time she'd happily drown him.

"But no one in your class watches the news" Nancy tells him. "They're not going to see you."

"Yeah, but do yours?"

Nancy considers. The thing is, kids in her class might not watch the news but she's pretty sure they'd _know,_ somehow.

"I mean, it's just to show Dad's nice and everything" Elwen says, when Nancy doesn't respond. "It's not like-really about us."

"Mmm." Nancy pushes herself forward with one foot.

She's kept her promise-she hasn't looked at anything anyone says about Dad ever since that day Mum made her promise not to. That doesn't mean she doesn't think about it, though.

"How was Sophie?" she asks-Elwen went to see his counsellor on Tuesday. He got to miss French, which he's been jubilant about for days. Nancy can't help but feel a little annoyed that the only thing she got to miss on Friday afternoon was Buddy Reading with Flo's class.

"Did she talk about Ive?"

" A bit." Elwen drags his scooter over to the side of the driveway, by the huge gates-they've been forbidden from racing on the driveway ever since Flo tried to keep up with them and cut her arm. "Mostly, she just asked me stuff."

Nancy pulls her bottom lip in. "You know the people who say stuff about Dad?"

Elwen shrugs, not pretending not to know what she's talking about. "Yeah. They're nuts. Or stupid."

"Yeah" Nancy says, but at the same time, she can't help but think that Elwen didn't see them. If he did, he'd be angrier.

Then again, she remembers what Mum said. Some of them are ill and probably can't help it. Or they're jealous that Mum and Dad-and probably, Nancy, Elwen and Flo too-have things they don't. The best way to get back at them is to not let them bother any of them. Or to show them that they're happy and that they can't do anything to them. Or both.

"Mum's here" Elwen says, pointing back to the huge oak front doors and turning his scooter back towards the house where Mum's standing, Flo pushing her own mini-scooter proudly, and Nancy follows him, forgetting, for the moment, the world outside Chequers and the gardens and pool, and their own family's four walls.

* * *

Ed's walking slowly back up from the car when the next front door along opens.

Ed doesn't look up at first. It's been a long Saturday, even though it shouldn't have seemed it. Justine had a meeting about the Ocensa case and Ed had tried taking Daniel and Sam to Hampstead Heath-he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask Daniel about his bike again, so he'd tried taking them on their scooters instead, encouraging them to race each other half-heartedly down the paths, but Daniel had screwed up his mouth, frowning at Ed over the pink handles.

"Sam's too _small"_ he'd said, as though that was something that should have been obvious to anyone, and Ed had dropped his arms, feeling oddly wrong-footed.

It might have been for the best, anyway-while Daniel had mostly talked to Sam, every time Sam tugged at Ed's hand or, once they reached the Parliament Hill playground, turned round to call out to him as Ed pushed him with one hand on the swings, he'd had to be holding his phone in the other. Daniel had looked away with an impatient sound when he'd spotted the phone, especially when it started ringing-Marc wanting to check the speech next week, and Stewart, wanting to check some rebuttal lines for the criticisms over cutting tuition fees.

Ed had been sitting on a bench, trying to go over some clarifications of the policy with Stewart-"It'll benefit everyone, not jutht the middle classeth-" when a woman had marched up to him, wearing a tracksuit that managed to look posh, a scraped back ponytail, and a frown. Ed had flinched, sure it was a disgruntled voter. "Um-"

"Is your little boy Sam?" the woman demanded, without preamble.

Ed had blinked. "Er-" He'd wrestled his thoughts from details of revenues back into the playground. "Er-yeah-"

"Dark curly hair?"

"Y-yeah-yeth, he has-why, what'th happene-"

The woman had had her hands on her hips, already turning away, clearly expecting Ed to follow. "We've been looking for his parents for at least five minutes-"

"I-I wath-" Ed had held out the phone uselessly, almost tripping over his own feet as he got up to follow her. "I wath jutht-"

The woman gave the phone a fleeting, scornful glance, making Ed's cheeks warm, and then marched off, leading the way round the climbing frame, Ed scurrying to keep up, only to see Sam, perched on a bench, lip trembling and lashes spiky with tears, Daniel holding his hand, a mark on his knee already on its' way to turning into a big, bright bruise, with a gaggle of clucking mothers and fathers surrounding them both. One mother was crouched down, wiping a couple of dewdrops of blood from Sam's kneecap with wet wipes, while another had handed over a toy dog for him to cuddle. Her baby, which she was juggling on one hip, had gurgled sympathetically, solemn eyes big and round, as if in empathy with the situation.

"Oh, Jethuth-" Ed had clutched the phone helplessly, staring at his younger son's tear-stained cheeks, big dark eyes blinking up at him from under the rumpled curls. "What happened-"

"Fell off-s-ide-"

"He fell off the _slide"_ Daniel had said accusingly, easily loudly enough for the whole playground to hear. Ed had felt the heat rush to his cheeks at the heads turning to take them in.

"Oh, dear, let'th-let'th-let me th-se, th-sweetie-" He'd put a hand on Sam's shoulder gingerly, patting him, nudging his curls slightly. The woman with the baby, who'd been dabbing Sam's cheeks with a Kleenex sympathetically, rolled her eyes very slightly with a tut. The baby too seemed to give him a reproachful look, as if disappointed in his efforts.

"He was calling to you to see him climb up it, and then he fell _off-"_ Daniel's voice had been even louder.

"Well-you th-shouldn't really be climbing up th-slideth, th-sweetie-"

An indignant squawk at the other end of the line had made Ed remember his phone. "I'm thorry-I-th-Stewart, I'll have to ring you back-"

"Aren't you even going to _ask_ where he's hurt?" Another woman had been staring up at him furiously from her position on the ground, where she'd been crouched, smoothing a dinosaur plaster over Sam's knee.

"I-Thtewart, I-yeth, of course-where are you, where are you hurt, thweetie-"

"Knee." Sam snuffled the word out, squeezing Daniel's hand for comfort, leaning away from Ed. "Zia-"

"He wants Zia" Daniel had translated for the benefit of the gathering around them.

"Who's Zia-"

"Our nanny-"

"Of course" one woman had muttered, none too quietly.

The woman with the baby had rolled her eyes again. Ed had wished for the ground to swallow him. His eyes had fallen on the baby, as the woman chucked Sam under the chin sympathetically, still pressing kisses to her baby's head at the same time. It was one of those babies most people stop to fuss over-a blonde, bonny, bouncing sort of baby with big, blue, sparkling eyes and chubby, rosy cheeks. It would have a big Silver Cross pram and specially-decorated wallpaper for its' nursery and would be woken up with raspberries blown on its' tummy each morning to make it laugh uproariously throughout the day. It had reminded Ed of Cameron's babies.

"We were looking for his father for at least five minutes" said the first woman, hands still on her hips. Her daughter, equally blonde, had wound around her legs, her hair being patted protectively. "We felt sure a parent would at least be in _sight."_

Ed had winced. "I-I was-I didn't realise they-" His eyes had moved to the mark on Sam's knee that would stand out in sharp relief against his pale skin, and the thought had lanced through him- _thank God it wasn't his face, he'd look like a battered child for the filming, for God's sake-_

"Sandra was all for calling the _police_ " said the woman with the plasters, ruffling Sam's curls indignantly with a sympathetic cluck. "I mean, really, children need to be kept in _sight-"_

"What on _earth_ were you doing?" asked the woman with the baby, kissing it twice, and stroking its' cheek with indignant affection, as though wanting to shield it from the sight of such parental incompetence.

"I-" Ed had scrabbled for words, only for Daniel's voice to split the air, high and accusing, louder than ever. "Because he was on his stupid _phone!"_

They'd left shortly after that.

Ed had carried Sam home, apologising every few moments-Sam had sniffled to himself, leaving Ed with no idea as to whether he'd absorbed the words or not, other hand gripping Daniel by the wrist, finding it easier not to look at him. Once they'd got home, he'd been grateful for the chance to stick The Octonauts on. Ed had tried sitting in the living room with them, laughing one second behind the jokes, until he realised that neither of them had turned towards him since he'd sat down on the couch, and somehow it had been less lonely to sit in the study on his own. He'd been grateful that Justine had only got home half an hour ago and grateful that she's going out in half an hour again, though not as grateful as he had been that the boys had barely looked up when she walked into the room.

Ed watches as the front door of the house next to theirs opens, tries to smile quickly as he reaches their own steps. "Hi-"

The man looks up and Ed's smile fades. It's Ian. Cameron's speechwriter. Their next-door neighbour.

_Fuck, does he know?_

Ed shoves one hand into his pocket, his palms suddenly damp. Despite living next door to him for six years, they don't actually know Ian that well-understandably. They might say hello in the street, but ironically, Cameron's much closer to Ed's next-door neighbour than Ed is.

"Hello, Ed." Ian gives him a courteous nod, before tuning round, bending to lift something. Ed stands there, folder under his arm, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, debating whether or not to just go inside, when he sees what Ian's fiddling with and he stops dead as Ian, gently, with the help of Linnet, begins to lift his daughter out of her wheelchair into the special seat attached to their steps.

"Oh-" Ed looks away, then back. He shuffles his feet. Ian gives him another quick, polite smile, and then turns back to Iona. "There we are, sweetheart-"

Iona makes a happy sound as the seat slowly moves down, transporting her to the bottom of the steps. Ed stands there, watching, wanting to look away, but struck by the sudden thought that Cameron must have been here next door, must have seen this dozens of times.

Would he have had to do this, one day? Ivan had been small enough for Cameron to lift when he'd died. If he'd grown up, would Cameron have had to have one of these seats, needed someone to help him lift Ivan into a wheelchair? Would his life have been like this?

"There we are." Linnet joins Ian at the bottom of the steps, where she helps him lift Iona back into her wheelchair, her arms draped over her parents' shoulders. "There we are-"

"You like the park, don't you, darling?" Ian gives his daughter a kiss on the cheek.

He looks up at Ed, meets his gaze. Ed opens his mouth and closes it again. Linnet stares at him hard, her husband's hand barely brushing her elbow.

"I-thorry." Ed feels himself blush furiously and looks away. "I-I didn't mean to-"

"She's not a bomb that's about to go off" Ian says mildly, bending down to make sure Iona is settled in her chair, Linnet putting an arm round her shoulders protectively. Ian touches Iona's hand.

"No, I know, I jutht, I-"

Ian glances up at him, seemingly about to say something, but then Iona's hand jerks up to his own, holds it to her cheek. Ian's gaze softens as he strokes her cheek. Iona makes a happy gurgling sound. Ed looks away, his eyes prickling.

"Ed-" He can hear Justine's voice from the hallway, and he glances back. "Um-yeah, I'm coming in now-"

Justine pulls the door open and, seeing Iona in the wheelchair, does the smile she does when she's meeting parents as a governor. Ed winces.

"Hello, Iona." Justine bends down, even though she's at the top of the steps and Iona's at the bottom. "How _are_ you?" She's using the tone of voice one might use to address a very small or particularly stupid child.

Ed had tried not to cringe earlier when Justine had, upon hearing that Sam had cut his knee, awkwardly put her arm around his shoulders, doing the same too-wide smile when Sam had eventually grumpily turned his gaze away from the TV to look at her, bewildered at the attention, at the singsong "OK, Mr Sam?" he'd received, as she tried, inexpertly, to chuck him under the chin. This is much, much worse.

The grin looks as if it might climb off Justine's face. Ed takes a look at Linnet's expression and feels as though all his insides have shrivelled up at once.

"Hi, Justine" Ian says patiently, tapping the wheelchair. "Better be off, Iona likes her walks-"

Justine waves at her from the steps, an exaggerated wave which, Ed is pettily gratified to see, Iona ignores, and then heads back inside, apparently not noticing that Linnet's walked back in without saying anything. Ian gives Ed a nod and begins to push Iona's wheelchair gently. "Come on, sweetheart-"

Ed opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but closes it again. Instead, he watches as Ian pushes Iona's wheelchair down the street, chatting gently to her the whole time, not turning to go inside until he's watched them out of sight.

* * *

David barely gets the door closed behind him before he's being kissed.

"Mmph." David has to use every ounce of willpower not to sink into it, and even as he does, the thought leaps into his mind-the part of his mind closest to the part of his jaw that Miliband's suddenly kissing- _Jesus, he's better at that than last time._ "Ed-living room-"

Ed doesn't say anything-just follows him to his own living room wordlessly. The second the door's closed behind them, Ed kisses him again, guiding David's back against the door, one hand winding into Ed's hair mindlessly.

"Mmm-Ed-" After a glance at the windows, confirming the shutters are in place, David finally closes his eyes and, with a strange, delighted shiver, lets Ed take the lead.

It takes him a moment to realise that Ed's kissing him differently. His hand's pressing into David's cheek a little hard, but then the touch softens a little. He kisses almost gently, his tongue slowly teasing David's mouth, almost caring.

"Oh-" David hears himself make the sound in his throat, softly. Miliband pulls back, blinking at him. "I-wath that all right?"

"Yeah." David's voice is a whisper. "Yeah. That was-"

Miliband looks away, but a slight smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Um-" He gestures to the couch awkwardly, but David, a grin tempting him too, can't look away from the smile.

This time, their mouths touch a little more slowly, fumbling. David can't help but notice they haven't said anything to each other since he walked in the door, but Miliband's mouth isn't harsh and angry, the way it was the first few times. Instead, it's gentle-almost tentative at first-but then his fingers stroke through David's hair slowly, and David's thoughts dissolve as Miliband tilts his head into a long, gentle, open-mouthed kiss, their tongues touching slowly.

"Wow-" David blurts it out, before he can think twice as they break apart. "Wow. That was-um-rather-"

Miliband's look is oddly torn between the same, almost goofy grin as earlier, and a furrow of suspicion on his brow.

It's on instinct that David reaches out and touches the furrow between Ed's eyebrows. Ed's eyes flicker shut.

"Oh-" It's a murmur in his throat. David feels a warmth buzzing in his chest, radiating out through his body, leaving him breathless. He can see Ed's bottom lip trembling and slowly reaches out to stroke it.

Ed's eyes close and he lets out another breathy little sound. "Ah-"

"Is this OK?"

David's voice is a whisper. Ed's eyes open wide, and stare back before he nods slowly. David tilts their mouths together very slowly, eyes open the whole time, not letting them flicker closed until Ed's mouth opens warm and soft under his own.

David's heart is beating harder and harder. Each kiss is long and slow, their hands shaking slightly, when they touch accidentally. When their mouths part, David's presses against his jaw unthinkingly-not kissing, just murmuring slightly.

When he feels Ed tense slightly, he moves away. "Ed-what is it-"

"My-my phone-" Ed reaches for it. "It's-jutht let me-"

David, at the same moment, becomes aware of his own phone vibrating in his pocket. "Mine too."

Miliband's eyes meet his, and they each have the strange feeling of seeing their own expression on the other's face.

"Shit." David swallows. "Do you-think that-"

Ed's fingers are already flying over the screen, and then his eyes widen. "Fuck."

"What? What is it?"

"Fuck. Nick."

"Nick?" David's whole body jumps. "Nick-our Ni-Nick Clegg?"

Ed gives him a look that tells David he didn't miss the slip of the tongue. But he shakes his head. "It'th-fuck, it'th Nick Robinthon, he-he-"

"He what?"

"He's got-Jesus, he's got cancer."

David stops dead.

* * *

"Nick." Ed sinks down onto the arm of the couch as Cameron sits at the other end. "I heard."

There's a low chuckle, dryer than usual, at the other end of the phone. "Everyone has."

"Jethuth. I'm tho thorry." Ed leans his head on his hand.

"Thanks for saying so." Nick manages to chuckle again. Ed winces.

"How-I mean, how are you coping?" Ed cringes, and then, automatically, his eyes flicker to Cameron, expecting a smirk or even just an amused glint of the eyes.

Cameron's leaning against the other arm of the couch, watching Ed quietly. When Ed meets his eyes though, the look there isn't mocking or even quiet mirth at Ed stumbling over his words.

The look there is soft and it-it's-

Ed has to turn away, his heart suddenly pounding. The phone almost slips in his hand, and he has to clear his throat.

"We've been better" Nick's saying, as Ed tries to listen over the sudden chaos of his heartbeat. "But-we'll get through it. The doctors say there's every reason to be positive-"

Ed nods, trying to listen closely, conscious the entire time of that gaze of Cameron's.

Resting on him. Like a touch.

* * *

"Bye." Ed lowers the phone slowly, then rests his forehead on his hand for a moment before checking the screen once more as he slides down to sit on the couch next to him. "Fuck."

When a few seconds of silence go by, he looks up, brow furrowing as his eyes find David's. "What?"

David stares at him. "You're just......really.....sweet."

He feels the heat rush to his cheeks immediately. Miliband's eyes widen.

But the truth of the words sticks in his throat. Miliband is sweet. Sometimes irritatingly sweet.

David moves to get up. "Um-do you want a-"

But before he can move from the couch, before he can offer Ed Miliband a cup of tea in his own house, before he can do anything to escape from the sudden tightness in the room, the breath wanting to catch in his chest, Ed's hand is in his hair and David's falling back against the couch and they're kissing.

This is different. Their mouths are hot and open, their hands moving. David feels Ed's fingers fumble his top button open, and immediately presses his mouth back into Ed's, before either of them can get a breath, before they can start to think this is a bad idea.

He kisses Ed's neck, feeling Ed's fingers work at his top button again for a moment before suddenly, there's a tentative touch to his collarbone and David gasps, harsh and desperate against Ed's skin, and then he feels Ed's fingers skate along it gently, nervously. The sensation sends goosebumps prickling up David's neck, and he arches into it before he can stop himself. One arm's around Ed's back, their heads on each other's shoulders, and David's hand runs along his waistband restlessly, before he touches the bottom of Ed's jumper cautiously, and, when Ed doesn't pull away, lifts the bottom of his jumper slowly, lets his finger touch his shirt and then gasps as it slides between the gap between the buttons, tickles Ed's warm skin.

Ed gasps like he's drowning. His hand presses hard into David's back, and then his face is ducking, pressing into David's neck, and then his tongue laves along David's collarbone.

The warmth sends a jolt straight to David's crotch, makes him jump violently. "Fuck, Ed-" His voice is at least two octaves lower than usual, and they both stop, breathing hard.

Ed stares at him, and then pulls back, at the same moment that David closes his eyes, trying to drag his thoughts back to something resembling sanity. His hand is stuck in Ed's shirt and an odd laugh bursts out of his throat as he fumbles it loose.

Ed stares at him, lips flushed and swollen. "Oh-God-"

"It's OK."

"No, it'th not, it'th-" Ed gets up from the couch suddenly, then sits down with his face half-turned away from David. "It'th-fuck."

"Ed."

"Fuck."

"Never heard you swear so much." David tries to make his tone light. Ed turns his head to glare at him.

"Sorry." David looks away, trying to bite back his smile.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't." Ed actually half-covers his mouth, looking away from him to hide the reluctant smile at his mouth.

"Don't what?" David moves closer to him, teasing.

"Shut up."

"Don't make you laugh?"

"Shut up."

"So I should make you laugh?"

Ed gives him a shove in the shoulder, a laugh spluttering out, giving David a sideways glance. "Shut up."

David grabs his arm, and they stare at each other, Ed's laughter abruptly dying away. They look at each other for a moment, then turn away.

"D-do you want a cup of tea?"

The way Ed squeezes his eyes shut the moment the words are out makes it much, much harder than it should be for David not to lean in and kiss him.

* * *

Somehow, Cameron ends up making the tea.

Ed swallows two ibuprofen, almost without needing water. He leans back with his head against the cupboard, turns his head towards the window. There are no curtains or blinds here, and he nudges Cameron's foot with his own. "Careful."

Cameron glances outside-the garden is in darkness, the only illumination provided by the squares of yellow light in the homes beyond. "You mean, ah-don't bend you over the kitchen sink?"

Ed blushes furiously. "You're fucking incorrigible."

Cameron gives him a wink. "I thought that was a compliment."

"You would" Ed murmurs.

Cameron leans against the counter next to him. "Any particular reason?"

Ed snorts without opening his eyes. "Ath if I'd tell you."

 _I just had my tongue down your throat, though._ The words ring as loudly as if Cameron had said them aloud.

Cameron joins him at his side, so both of them are leaning against the cupboard, passing Ed a mug. Ed wraps his hand around it without opening his eyes. "Don't worry." Cameron winks at him when Ed opens one eye grumpily. "We're in Camden, Miliband. I'm sure you can count on some big, red ticks around here."

"Tho?"

David winks. "So I'm sure what you get up to in your kitchen won't make any difference to those ticks from such a bunch of champagne socialists."

Ed's eyes fly open, jaw dropping indignantly, only to catch Cameron's grin. He glowers. "I'd take my th-champagne socialithtth over your Home Countieth-Home Countieth-" The lisp catches in his throat.

Cameron arches an eyebrow. "What? Racists, classists, bigots-"

"Th-ut up-Countieth-your th-" Ed turns away, cheeks flaming.

"Hey." Cameron's hand is on his arm suddenly-Ed blushes even harder, tries to jerk his arm away. "I didn't realise. I didn't-Ed." Cameron's hands fasten on both of Ed's arms suddenly, turning him round slightly to face him. "Ed. I didn't realise it was your-"

Ed's about to bark something out at him, or just stalk out of the room before his eyes prickle, when Cameron's hand brushes his cheek.

Ed freezes, his skin tickling under the touch. His eyes find Cameron's, an odd swooping sensation in his stomach, at his gaze.

"The window" he breathes, aware that they're standing almost toe-to-toe.

Cameron nods slightly but doesn't move, his gaze roaming over Ed's face, up and down. Ed's heart beats faster and faster, until his breaths grow tighter and tighter.

Cameron's voice is a whisper that almost touches Ed's skin. "I really want to kiss you, Edward."

Ed can't breathe. He can't think, can't move.

He gives one glance at the window. Then, setting his mug on the counter, he reaches out and takes Cameron's wrist, and doesn't turn back, tugging Cameron behind him as they walk out of the kitchen, through the living room into the dining room, only stopping to push the French doors closed behind Cameron.

"Interesting-" is all Cameron gets out before Ed tugs again, firmly, manoeuvring Cameron into the space next to the French doors, out of sight of the windows, pushing him back against the wall, and then wraps his arms around him and kisses him.

This time, their mouths fasten together, and Ed's teeth bite his lower lip, and this time a moan comes out of Cameron's throat, vibrating against Ed's skin, and Ed presses their foreheads together, breathing him in.

"C'mere" is all Cameron says, and then he's pulling Ed in, pulling him round so they're both pressed against the wall, Ed spluttering something against his mouth.

"Jutht coping" he thinks he whispers before Cameron's mouth captures his in another kiss, and another, and another.

Ed's hands are on his face, trying to hold him still-God, just wanting to hold him still, to just get to _kiss_ him and not have to fight with him for a second, even though they're fighting each other with their hands and mouths, each of them gasping for breath. His fingers go back to Cameron's collar, exploring his collarbone more urgently this time.

"Ed-" Cameron's voice is a gasp and Ed only gets a glimpse of his eyes, blazing blue, before he can remember that a second ago he called him Edward.

"I-" he whispers, their mouths a breath apart, before he hears "Daddy?"

* * *

David feels Ed freeze against him. For a moment, they stare at each other, their chests rising and falling. Oh God.

"Daddy?" They both look at the French doors at once and David feels Ed physically sink into his chest as they realise there's nobody there.

They scramble away from each other, David fastening his top button hastily. He smoothes down his hair with one hand, moves quickly away from Ed, gives him a quick look. "You all right?"

Ed nods, turns away quickly. "I-"

David turns to the doors, knowing that any minute now whichever of the boys it is will decide to venture further into the room. He doesn't look back, hoping to God that Miliband will take the hint to stay where he is until he's made himself look more presentable.

He opens the door to see a small figure with dark curls standing in the living room doorway, clutching a toy caterpillar.

"Sam." David takes a step towards him. "Hiya."

Sam clutches his caterpillar tightly. "Where-addy?" Sam's voice still has the slightly dragging, stuck-together sound of a toddler when he's tired, though by David's calculation, he'll be starting school in September. He's only three months younger than Flo, after all.

"Daddy's just-Daddy'll be just a moment." David seats himself on the arm of the nearest chair, gesturing Sam to come closer. Sam does so, leaning against his leg cautiously, chewing his caterpillar's head. "You all right?"

Sam shakes his head. "Woke up. Couldnssleep."

"Sam?" David forces himself not to look round as Ed's arm brushes his shoulder very slightly as he emerges from the dining room. "What ith it, thweetie?"

Sam burbles something but turns his head away from his father. David frowns. "He said he woke up-"

The phone rings. David almost feels Ed twitch in irritation, and the heightened awareness prickles over his skin.

"Um-"

Ed looks between his son and David, already moving towards the phone. Something about the sight squeezes David's ribs in his chest.

"I'll take him back to bed" he says, getting up, reaching for Sam's hand.

Ed jumps slightly. "Yeah-yeth-I-I'll get-"

He turns towards the phone, and David feels something flinch in his chest as he realises Ed hasn't turned towards Sam at all.

"Come on, then" he says, and he picks Sam up, heart squeezing at the way the little boy's arms wrap around his neck, and the way, glancing over his shoulder, Ed heads for the phone without looking up once.

* * *

"Now-" David tucks Sam into bed gently, propping his toy caterpillar up on the pillow next to him. "OK?"

He can't help noticing, as he glances around Sam's bedroom, that there isn't very much in here. There are some toys scattered around, and an Octonauts rug, and his name is spelt out on the door and there's a bookshelf but the walls are pretty bare, apart from a map of the world, which Sam seems far too young for, and a few times tables and spelling posters, that sort of thing. It looks more like a boarding school room than a four-year-old's.

Sam sniffles, dark curls rumpled. David puts his hand on his cheek, only for Sam to stick his leg up under the duvet. "Lookit-"

"Let's see-" David gently pulls the duvet back, only for Sam to pull up the leg of his pyjama bottoms to reveal a large, dark bruise forming on his knee.

"Oh, dear." David touches below the bruise carefully, gives Sam a kiss on the cheek. "How did you do that, then?"

"Fell-at-park." Sam strings the words together as one. "Daddy didn't come."

"What do you mean, Daddy didn't come?" David tucks him under the duvet, kisses his forehead.

"Daddy didncome for ages. Crying. A lady came and helped. Daniel was there." Sam is snuggling down into the pillow, oblivious to the sudden stillness of David's hand.

He glances at Sam, about to ask more, but seeing the heaviness of Sam's eyelids, thinks better of it. Instead, he ruffles his curls, presses another kiss to his cheek with a "Night night" and holds his hand for a few minutes until he's sure Sam's sleeping peacefully before carefully making his way out of the room, pulling the door to behind him.

* * *

Ed nearly drops the phone as he picks it up, praying it's just Nick calling him back or a cold caller, and not sure whether it's because he wants to get back to Cameron or because he's terrified of who might guess he's here.

"Hello?"

There's a moment of silence. Ed glances impatiently at the door through which Cameron and Sam have just disappeared. "Anyone there?"

"Ed?"

The Scottish accent rolls down the line.

Ed nearly drops the phone.

Fuck. Fuck.

Ed grips the back of the couch. For a moment, it's the 90s again and he's about to send a fax to Balls: _He's found me._

"Ed? Are you there?"

Ed swallows. "Gordon?"

"Ed-I've been meaning to speak to you-"

Fuck. Ed closes his eyes, for a moment catapulted back to countless small hours reaching for his phone and hearing the same voice at the other end, already getting out of bed without even opening his eyes.

Then, he'd have got out of bed knowing soon he'd be in an office with Balls, sometimes Douglas and Yvette too, hammering out edits on a speech or sculpting the finer points of a policy as dawn crept across the sky and birds hooted their first songs in the cold morning air outside.

Then, he'd have known they'd have joked about it too. That they'd have been as familiar with each other as breathing.

"You've-um-how've you been?" Ed curses himself for the awkwardness of the words. He doesn't need to be awkward with Gordon. He shouldn't need to be.

"Things have been better than usual, Ed. The Scottish campaign's going well, but the Nationalists could take some away from us-"

Ah. Politics. In a way, it's reassuring. Ed's used to this. It's always been like this with Gordon.

Ed thinks, momentarily, of what he'd first think to talk about, and bites his lip.

"Well-we're not going to go into coalition with the eth-SNP-"

"That could be suicide, Ed. Going into coalition with someone opposed to unionism-" Ed can almost picture Gordon reaching for his laptop to hammer out notes to a speech. "It would go against our best interests-"

"Gordon-" Ed tries to interject gently. "What were-I mean, what did you-"

"Ah." The low grumble of a voice comes out. "Look, Ed-I know you could do with some advice on the campaign."

Ed has to bite back a grin. It only lasts a second before he remembers Rachel and the others on the train, and the smile fades.

"Now, I've had a look over the policies-I think you've got some good ideas economically. But mathematically-" A grunt. "A mansion tax doesn't make sense solely on its' own-you've got to find a way to protect the vulnerable, the older people who bought their homes in a different generation-"

"Gordon-"

"Now, I'll be happy to look over these proposals with you-"

"Gordon." Ed curses himself for not being able to force himself to interrupt sooner. "I-I wasn't thinking of-I was more thinking of thomething I think I can rule out, actually."

There's a pause-Gordon's probably scowling. But that's always a good guess.

"Well?" Gordon's familiar lapse into monosyllabic speech when interrupted in a flow of ideas makes Ed chew his lip for a moment, trying to rework his words.

"I-some of-Rachel and some of the others were thinking it would be an idea to-to get my-my-"

He bites his lip. "I mean, I think it'th a terrible idea" he says in a rush. "You thee, we're trying to move people on from the Blairite mould and thith would only serve to reinforthe the previouth thplith in the party-" He grips his phone more tightly at the lisp breaking through.

"No. No, not your brother." Ed can almost picture the shake of Gordon's head, like a grumpy bear. "No, I was talking about Cameron."

Ed nearly has a heart attack on the spot.

"C-Cameron?!" His voice sounds horrifyingly high-pitched, and he glances at the door, belatedly slapping his hand over his mouth in case Cameron should hear. He holds his breath, his shirt sticking to his back, but when after a moment, Cameron hasn't appeared, he slowly lifts the phone back to his ear.

"Tony tells me you've been spending a lot of time together?"

"T-Tony?" Ed tries and fails to keep the surprise out of his voice. He can't remember the last time he talked to Tony.

But Tony's been talking to Gordon. About him. And Cameron.

Fuck.

"You've been-I didn't-when did you talk to Tony?"

"Tony tells me you've been spending a lot of time together?"

Gordon has always reminded Ed of a bulldozer.

"Um-I-" Think. Think.

"I wouldn't thay a lot."

That is not thinking.

"Going to each other's houses, that sort of thing?"

Ed looks at the door. God. _God God God-_

"I-I wouldn't thay that-not really."

"Cameron's-"

"What did Tony thay?" Ed tries not to let the words squeak out.

"Cameron's not someone to-he's a posh boy, Ed." Gordon waves this aside-Ed can picture it, the shake of the head. "You should be focusing on the campaign."

"I am." Ed bites his lip furiously. "Honethtly, we're not even-we're not thpending time together, Gordon-"

"He's someone who can bluster through."

"Well, you never liked that about him." Ed hears his own voice burst out. "You didn't like him at the dispatch box."

"And you did?"

Ed feels himself blush furiously. "I never hated him."

Gordon makes an annoyed, grunting noise. "The posh boy thing. Never liked it. If you threw something at him, it'd bounce off."

"Like Tony, then?" Ed blinks at himself. "I-I mean-"

"What's Tony got to do with it?" Gordon's voice is a growl, the way Ed's heard a hundred times before, when he heard that Tony wasn't setting a date for standing down, when David's article appeared and he told Ed to _-"Ring him. Ring your brother now, right now. And find out what the fucking hell he's playing at!",_ when Ed told him he wasn't backing the third runway-

Ed's stomach turns over.

"Nothing. I jutht meant-they're thimilar, in thome ways. The Heir to Blair and all that-" He winces, resisting the urge to slap his forehead with one hand.

He's brought up Tony. He's brought up Tony.

Only Gordon brings up Tony. Ever.

"It means that if you think you're getting close to him, he can throw it away." Gordon almost barks it out down the phone. "You can't be relying on what he says, for God's sake. He's a fucking _Tory,_ Ed."

"I'm not." Ed hates how defensive his voice sounds, but then he's suddenly remembering a lifetime ago, sitting at a table in Portcullis House, trying to ignore his phone, and then looking up as a chestnut-haired, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed figure casually draped himself in his chair opposite Ed, and had felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of Cameron's grin.

"I'm not relying on him" he says, firmer, louder. "For God'th thake. Of courthe I'm not."

"You're sure, now?"

"Of courthe." Ed turns his back to the door, begins to pace slowly. "Of courthe I'm not bloody-we talked a couple of times, our kids-our kidth were-that'th it, there'th nothing-"

_I was snogging his face off against my dining room wall ten minutes ago, and then he put his arms round me and I don't know what the hell we would have done next, Gordon, and I don't know why Tony's talking about it and I don't know what the hell to do and I can't even talk about it with you because you hate him and Tony and God knows who else, and I'm supposed to hate them too, and I don't-_

"There'th nothing going on, Gordon" he says firmly. "Tony'th exaggerating. You know how-you know how he can be."

He doesn't really, but God, he's got to throw Gordon off somehow.

"You're not lying to me, now, Ed?"

"Of courthe not."

"Because you know I trust you."

Ed suppresses a groan. "I know. It'th fine. The campaign'th going-it'th fine, I promithe."

"Good to know-and about your brother-"

Ed swallows hard.

"Don't brush it off too quickly, Ed."

Ed frowns. "What?"

"You don't want to brush it off too quickly. A united campaign will be better for everyone-"

Ed only just manages not to burst out laughing at _this._

But at that moment, there's a creak on the stairs and Ed spins round. "I've-got to go-one of the boys is-one of the boys has woken up" he invents, wildly, and he can barely hear Gordon's reply, as he whirls round, carrying the phone back to the dining room.

"I've got to-I'll call you-bye, Gordon" is all he manages, before replacing the phone hastily, turning round, and seeing Cameron lounging against the door frame, top button loosened, hair a mess, and raising an eyebrow in a manner that leaves Ed wondering if his knees will give way.

* * *

David raises an eyebrow, his heart beating slightly faster than usual. "Speaking to Brown?"

Ed does an odd little jump. "How do you know?"

"Who else would you call _Gordon_ , Miliband?" David tries to smile, but knows it doesn't quite make it all the way to his eyes. "Was he warning you off me?"

He doesn't expect Miliband to blush quite so violently, but it gives him his answer.

"Telling you off for spending time with elitist Etonians, then?"

"It wathn't like that" Miliband snaps back far too quickly, bringing David up short.

Oh.

"Wouldn't be the first time, though, would it?" He nearly winces the moment the words are out, not quite as light as he'd intended them to be.

Miliband's head jolts up, his eyes meeting David's. David returns the gaze, remembering seeing it levelled at him across the table at Portcullis House, big brown eyes narrowing in suspicion.

_"What are you doing?" Miliband's eyes had narrowed at him-David hadn't been able to help but notice the way he immediately clutched his folders closer, as though David might be about to snatch them from him._

_"Sitting down." David had hoped to God George wasn't standing behind him. He'd had a feeling even then that any hint of him being laughed at would send Miliband running for the hills._

_Miliband had snorted. He'd arched his eyebrows. David was sure Miliband was hoping he looked blisteringly sceptical but his dark eyes were too big and wide, his lashes too long-his face just too-_

_"Why are you th-sitting with me?" Miliband had flushed furiously at the lisp._

_David had wished he was able to answer the question._

Ed folds his arms. "That wath completely different. I wath working for him-you were the Leader Of The _Opposition-"_

"And the son of the manse hated us evil, elitist, private-school-educated-"

"Don't call him that."

"That's what you call him."

"That'th what _we_ call him." Miliband's cheeks have flushed angrily. "Don't call him that."

David snorts. "It's not as though he hasn't called me a lot bloody worse."

"No wonder."

David blinks. So does Miliband.

"Thanks a lot." David reaches for his coat.

"No, don't." Miliband somehow manages what is supposed to be a request sound reluctant. "Cameron-"

David turns and raises an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"You've thaid worthe to me." Miliband's voice cracks in almost a whine. But David notices the frantic chewing of the corner of his lip, and feels something twist in his chest.

"Yeah, and I always tell you I'm sorry."

"No, you don't!"

David meets his gaze head-on. "If you're upset, I do."

Ed looks away, chewing his lip. David stands still, torn between annoyance and amusement at the sulky look creeping over Ed's face.

"Thorry." He mutters the word, barely looking at David, and David has to suppress a laugh.

Instead, he lays his coat back on the armchair, and notices Ed's shoulders relax very slightly.

"Sam showed me that bruise on his knee" he says casually, walking back to the couch. "Quite a shiner."

The sulky expression slithers off Ed's face so fast David would have thought it had been greased. But then Ed blinks and looks away. His eyes are huge, his lip trembling, and for a moment, David thinks he's going to cry.

"What is it?" he says, his own voice much softer now. "What's happened, Ed?"

Ed takes a deep breath, and when David gently gestures to the couch, Ed follows him.

* * *

Ed isn't sure exactly why he tells Cameron what happened that afternoon. He starts off sitting next to him on the couch, with Cameron sitting a few inches away, but by the time he's finished relating what happened in the park, he's ended up curled up on the couch with his feet tucked underneath him and Cameron's hand is brushing his shoulder.

"I didn't mean him to get hurt" he finishes helplessly, letting his head rest on his hand. "I didn't, I jutht-"

David's thumb almost brushes his cheek as it squeezes his shoulder but not quite. "How come you didn't hear them calling you?"

Ed shrugs. "I wath on the phone, I wath jutht-on the phone" he finishes despairingly, the words crumbling away as he presses his forehead into his hand, squeezing his eyes shut.

Cameron's silent for a few moments, and then says "Do you-I mean, how often do you take them to the park and things?"

Ed looks up at him sharply. "I'm working a lot" he says, heat creeping up his cheeks. "It'th not that I _like_ not theeing them. But-I'm working, I'm trying to be-" He can hear his voice climbing louder and louder, despite his best efforts.

"Trying to put me out of a job?" suggests Cameron, head cocked to one side with a wink.

Ed looks away, furious at the smirk pushing at his mouth. For God's sake, how does Cameron _do_ that?

"It's just-maybe you could try spending time with them one on one" Cameron suggests, in a tone that suggests he clearly thinks this is helpful. "That's what Sam and I do-every other week, we take turns to do something with each of the kids on their own, so that they get time with us-"

Ed almost laughs. Almost.

"I don't think that-that'th going to work."

And it's easy for you, he thinks in a sudden angry rush, spiky and hot in his chest-it's easy for you, because everything's fucking easy for you, for God's sake, even raising three fucking kids in bloody Downing Street, you manage to bounce out of there every fucking morning, looking rosy and cheery and bloody happy, all the fucking time, how can you-

Four kids, Ed thinks, and then he hates himself for thinking it in the first place.

"I th-saw-" He swallows, this suddenly feeling important to say. "I th-saw-Ian today."

For a moment, there's silence. Then "Oh?"

"With-um-" Ed fidgets, eyes falling onto his socked foot as it does an odd little dance on the carpet. "With Iona."

Cameron stills very slightly. "How was she?"

Ed blushes, eyes on his knees. "She was-well-"

"You couldn't tell?"

Ed feels stupid, hates Cameron for making himself feel stupid, and then hates himself for hating Cameron.

"Not really" he mutters, knowing he sounds sulky and chewing his lip.

"Not your fault." Cameron leans back a little. "Most of the time you can't, unless you know someone really well. With that condition, I mean."

Ed fidgets for a few moments, feeling his way to the question he wants to ask. "Wath-how could you tell with Ivan?"

The name hangs in the room between them.

Cameron leans forward. Ed glances at him. "Sorry. Thorry, that was-"

"No, it's-" Cameron folds his arms, leaning forward. "With Ivan, we could-he could smile."

Ed thinks of Iona, beaming happily up at her father this afternoon, and his heart swells painfully in his chest.

"He could-"

"Smile, yeah." Cameron smiles too, quickly, briefly. "When we came into the room- I mean, it took a while, and there were times he couldn't, you know, because of his medications, that sort of thing, but he-yeah, he could do a little smile. Or he'd look at you. Sometimes, he'd gurgle, if he was swimming or looking at one of his toys. Or in the sensory room. He liked being held, and looking at you. Then he'd smile. I mean, it was like a-a baby's smile but it-it was nice." Cameron glances at Ed on this last word, their gazes meeting. Ed stares at him, his heart beating audibly now, gradually quickening.

He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't quite get the words out. Instead, acting almost on instinct, his hand creeps across the gap between them. He almost snatches it back, but then lets himself keep moving, until it finds Cameron's.

He looks down as his fingers interlink with Cameron's. They wrap around his hand, squeeze tightly. He stares at his knees, his cheeks burning, heat thudding a sudden, tight drumbeat.

Then he feels Cameron squeeze his hand back and he feels something open up in his chest, like taking a breath.

It takes a long moment before Ed wriggles an inch closer. He bites his lip but then, slowly, remembering that he's done it before, he lets his head lower until it's resting against Cameron's shoulder.

They sit like that in silence, not looking at each other, Cameron's head slowly tilting to rest against his own. They listen to each other's breathing, Ed's hair tickling Cameron's cheek, neither of them looking down to see themselves holding the other's hand.

* * *

The sky above is overcast, with a few clouds hovering ominously in the distance, and they have their coats zipped up tight, but the wood is dry where Nancy is sitting, cross-legged, on the wooden table outside The Plough Inn.

"So-" she says, to the little audience that's gathered around her, Elwen sitting on the table next to her, also cross-legged. "We'd been sitting _here-"_ She points to the table beneath her.

"And our car was over _there"_ she announces, pointing towards the car park-the crowd of locals, most of whom have heard her tell this story before, obligingly swivelling their heads to see.

Nancy waits until they've turned back to her with undivided attention before she continues. "So I came out of _there-"_

A hand falls on her shoulder. "Morris dancers off again?"

Nancy glares up at her father. "I'm _talking,_ Daddy."

Dad arches an eyebrow at her as the circle of locals titters, pushing Florence higher up so that her little arms wind around his neck. "I'll have you know" he tells them with a grin, gently untucking Florence's ponytail from her puffer jacket. "That whatever you're hearing is probably the height of spin."

Elwen half-turns round on the bench. "Yeah, but you _did_ leave Nancy-"

"Not with any prior intention." Dad leans round to place Nancy's juice on the table. "But now I'm considering it-careful, Flo-" He adjusts Florence slightly on his hip as she clings on.

"Is Nancy telling her story again-" Mum puts the last two drinks down on the table. "Here, careful, Dave, can you move Flo-"

Dad carries Flo round to the other side of the table, plonking her on his knee as she wriggles further into his chest. Nancy glares at Mum. "I'm telling my story."

"That _is_ like the second time you've interrupted her" Elwen points out, fairly, reaching for his own juice-Flo's waving her rabbit about.

"Nance, we need to go and order in a minute-" Mum climbs onto the bench, as Flo shuffles round onto Dad's lap, finally.

Nancy sighs and pulls her feet up onto the table. She pushes herself upright.

"Excuse me" she says, politely, to one of the locals, who's leaning his hand on the table and obligingly moves it so that Nancy can stand on the table carefully, allowing her voice to be heard more clearly.

"Right" she almost shouts, so that the few who've started to turn away turn back. "So I came out here-"

"Nancy _left"_ Flo announces, nodding earnestly in her eagerness to corroborate the story, though she was less than two years old at the time and Nancy knows for a fact she doesn't even remember. "Nancy was back _here_ when we went _home."_

They'd been here with Xandie and the others that day, and they'd been taking ages to get into the cars to go home-Nancy, Elwen and Flo sometimes had to travel in a different car from Dad anyway. Nancy would have told Mum she was going back inside, but she was fastening Flo into her car seat, and Xandie, Seth and Elwen were having some kind of argument over Chelsea, so Nancy, figuring everyone would be a lot longer, and having already been tapped on the head in the count by one of the protection officers, had wriggled out the other side of the car and trotted back into the pub.

When she'd come out of the bathroom a few moments later, and walked back to the driveway, expecting to see three or four cars still waiting for her, possibly with some of the others running about on the driveway, and wondering if she'd be allowed to ride in Uncle Seb's car so she could sit next to Alexandra, there'd been no one there.

Nancy had stood there for a moment, bemused, almost waiting for one of her parents to appear. She'd stood quietly, toeing the stones that surrounded the pub benches, before sitting down on one, sure the car would reappear any moment.

It had been the first time, Nancy had realised gradually as she sat there, that she'd been outside without one of Daddy's guards ever since they moved to Downing Street. Before that even, when he first became Prime Minister. It was an odd feeling. Nancy had got used to having someone there, out of the corner of her eye or walking just behind her, and to suddenly have no one there-well, a few people sitting on benches eating lunch or sharing glasses of lager, but no one for her-felt strange, but also a little lighter. Nancy had sat there for a few moments quietly, swinging her legs and waiting.

When what felt like ages but was probably less than three minutes had crept by with no one coming, Nancy had slid off the bench and headed back into the pub. Inside, there'd been a few more people, sitting eating their lunch, but since Daddy wasn't with her, none of them had been looking at her.

Nancy had trotted up to the bar where Steve was standing, wiping a glass. He'd seemed fairly engrossed in his task and Nancy had stood quietly for a moment, before stretching up on her tiptoes and tapping the bar gently.

"Excuse me" she'd said, politely.

Steve had looked up at her. "Oh, hello" he'd said. "What can I do for you?"

Nancy's brow had furrowed. "Where are my parents?"

Steve had frowned at her. "Aren't they all outside? Getting into the cars and whatnot?"

"They've gone" Nancy had told him, simply.

"They've what?"

"They've gone." Nancy had stepped carefully onto the bar at the bottom of one of their stools and carefully climbed up in order to see over the counter properly. "I came inside to go to the toilet and when I came out again, all of our cars had gone. I think they've gone home."

Steve had stared at her. Nancy had stared back.

"You'd better come round the bar" he'd said, in the end.

Now, standing on the table, it strikes Nancy-not for the first time, but more sharply, for some reason-that if Dad isn't Prime Minister in a few months time, they won't be coming here anymore. Mr Ed Miliband will be instead. They won't be coming to Chequers anymore, either.

Perhaps it's this thought that makes her stand up a little straighter, as she carefully moves her foot out of Flo's reach, who's half-scrambling to get on the table with her and says, a little more loudly, "So, Mum and Dad had gone back to the house-"

* * *

Ed turns the phone over in his hand, examining it. Gordon's words play in his mind.

_A united campaign will be better for everyone._

But Gordon. Gordon, of all people-

Ed almost laughs out loud just sitting on the couch. Gordon.

But then, Gordon knows. They all know what it was like. Blairites and Brownites.

_"Gordon's going to lose us this." They'd been standing in their mother's kitchen at the time, letting her sit down as they washed up. It had felt a little like being small again, when he'd had to stand on a chair to reach the sink, and David had sometimes pushed him a little too hard._

_"Nobody knowth what will happen." Ed had held the line firmly between his teeth, cleaning a plate that didn't need to be cleaned anymore. In the living room, he could hear the sound of Jacob gurgling-he'd been sitting on Louise's knee when they'd left, cuddled into her chest as he napped intermittently. Justine had been sitting next to her with that too-big, too-bright smile she gets sometimes, and Louise had been leaning back slightly, as though someone was shining a light in her eyes._

_David had waited a second too long to take the plate from Ed, a little more gently than he might have done. "Yeah, we do." He'd said the words too kindly, tilting his head with an odd, almost pitying expression, and it would have been far worse if he'd laughed._

_Ed had looked up at him sharply. "Don't."_

_"Don't what?" David had looked back at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but with that smile. Always with that smile._

_"Don't-"_

_Isaac had toddled into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around David's knees. David had lifted him up, his little body squirming, hands pulling at his father's mouth. "What are you doing, then?"_

_Ed had stared at them both, wondered briefly at the way David could snap out of the conversation so easily. How he could just go straight into picking up Isaac like that, feigning interest in whatever toy he was holding. Maybe not even feigning._

_Ed had put down the towel, gone to the living room doorway. He could see Daniel, snuggled into Ed's own mother's lap. She'd been stroking his cheek softly and watching them, Ed had felt a tug of something in his chest. He'd tried to remember sitting on her lap as a child. Daniel's face, which often seemed to Ed to be crumpled in a frown, had smoothed out, as her finger tickled his mouth. Ed had glanced at Justine, but she wasn't looking._

_He'd felt the warmth of his brother behind him, against his back, his hand barely brushing his elbow. Ed had waited, as David stepped beside him, so for once, they were just next to each other._

_"We're going to lose" David had said, in an undertone, almost a whisper, and then he'd been walking into the room, clapping his hands slightly as he held his arms to Jacob, Isaac on his shoulders, as everyone had turned to look at him, leaving Ed standing at the door, mouth still slightly parted, watching._

"What are you doing?" Justine appears in the doorway, holding one of their blue-and-white striped mugs.

"Oh-" It seems to take a while for the words to reach Ed. He squints at her. watching the way she cradles the mug between her hands, sipping from it slowly. It grates in his chest. Everything seems to grate in his chest.

"Just...deciding." He glances at Justine, debating whether or not to tell her.

After Cameron had left last night-with an odd, awkward, half-kiss to the mouth at the door, which had left Ed's thoughts reeling-he'd replayed the whole conversation in his head, doubts suddenly tugging at his insides, snaring his thoughts. He'd told himself it shouldn't matter, that they've talked about their children plenty of times, but he could imagine what Tom would say to that.

For God's sake, he's supposed to listen to Tom. What the hell's he doing-

He'd tried imagining what Tom would say if he knew anything else they'd done that night, and had nearly burst out laughing on the spot.

But he's supposed to tell Justine-of course, he's supposed to tell Justine.

Ed winces. OK, even if not about Cameron, but-Justine was the person he talked to last time. God, she was the one who first told him to-

Ed drags his thoughts away from that, and perhaps to keep it safely away from him, looks up at Justine and tells her briefly, as quickly as possible.

Justine cradles the mug between her hands, takes another sip from it. "Right." She nods slowly, her overlarge eyes wider than ever. Her lips compress as she considers it.

"Anyway-"

"I can see why it would help" Justine says slowly. "I mean, I would say it's up to you-"

Those words prickle down Ed's back, for some reason. And he's back to six years ago, sitting at the dining room table, cardboard boxes of a Chinese takeaway spilled out around them. Justine's hand taking his, which he'd squeezed a little too tightly, trying to convince his own to stay there. _"I mean-look, I know it's between the two of you-but-I just don't want you to miss out on anything or not-it's just, you might not get another chance, I suppose."_

"But-if you think about the way he's treated you-" Justine says slowly, with a small shake of her head. Something about the sight irks in Ed's chest, makes him grip his pen tightly.

"Other people don't th-see it that way" he says, a little too tightly.

Justine frowns. "I thought you said they wanted you too-Rachel and Stewart and-"

"No." Ed's fingers are curled into a fist now. "I meant-other people. At large. Generally. About-him and me. What we-"

_What I did._

Justine leans against the door frame. "Oh." Her eyes widen again, slightly. "Oh. Well-it-if it could help-but-" She tugs at her sleeve. "I mean, I know it's probably....fairly one-sided to most people, but I don't think you should forget that-everything that happened since, either."

But that's the point. Other people haven't.

Ed becomes aware his hand hurts. He's gripping the pen too tightly. He lowers it slowly to the notebook.

"There's some tea for you in the kitchen" Justine says, nodding towards the door.

"Oh." Ed tries to make his own tea whenever he can-Justine always makes his tea too weak. Or she uses those odd herbal teas, that taste to Ed like drinking a fistful of rose petals dumped in water.

"Thankth" he says. "Are you-"

"I'm going up." Justine turns back to the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later, she's bending down to kiss his cheek. "Night." Ed has a fleeting impression of Cameron's mouth on his, warm and hot, that quick nuzzle at the corner of his mouth, and has to fight not to pull away.

_Stop it. Stop it._

He waits until Justine's gone up the stairs, the sounds of the house settling around him, before he goes into the kitchen, and picks up the mug of tea she's made-one of the herbal ones he hates, though he's sure he's told her a hundred times. He pours it away down the sink, the drops nearly splattering his shirt, not even tasting it.

* * *

"Here, Nance, let's do your hair-"

Nancy shakes her head, tugging her school sweatshirt back into place. "I'll do it after I've brushed my teeth-"

"El, leave the Lego, please-" Mum pulls the porridge pot back towards her, carefully taking Flo's shoulder to pull her back into her chair. "Here, Flo, can you eat a few spoonfuls of your breakfast, please-"

"My bears are hungry" says Flo, blinking up at her mother, tugging her white nightie down and kicking her slipper boots. Her knee catches the rim of the table and she blinks, tears spurting into her eyes. _"Owwww-"_

"Flo-" Mum picks her up out of the chair, letting Flo wrap her arms around her neck. "Here, Dave, could you take her-El, sit down-"

"Did she bang her knee?" Elwen pats his little sister's back as he sits down next to Nancy, who's reached up to pat Flo's hand.

"Here, Nancy, sit down, Dad'll-" Mum passes Flo over to Dad, who carries her over to the couch. "Let's have a look, sweetheart-"

Nancy turns back to her bowl as Flo nestles into Dad's chest, her sniffling subsiding a little as Dad gives her knee a kiss. He waves a finger at the table. "Naughty, naughty-"

Flo giggles into his chest, as Dad kisses her cheek again, reaching for a tissue to wipe her cheeks. Nancy turns back to her porridge, reaching for the golden syrup to drizzle more on.

"You've got a river there-" Mum yanks the bottle back when Nancy nearly upends it. "Seriously, Nance, do you want some porridge with the bloody syrup, because that's nearly half the bottle-"

"I like it to be sweet." Nancy reaches for a spoonful of sugar.

"Oh, dear God, Nance." Mum pours a drizzle of syrup on her own porridge. "Your teeth are going to fall out, what on earth was the point in us not letting you drink Coke-"

"You could just let us" Elwen suggests nonchalantly, reaching for the sugar bowl himself.

"Yeah" Nancy suggests, shoving a spoonful of porridge drenched with syrup into her mouth. "We _are_ the only people at school who have to only have it on weekends."

"Oh, don't be stupid, Nance, sweetheart, of course you're not."

"Here-" Dad carries Flo back to the table, plonks her onto his knee as he sits down, Flo tugging at the end of his tie. "Here, let's see if we can get you-eating some breakfast-" Flo leans against his chest, koala under her arm.

Mum's sorting through the letters that someone's brought up to them, eating her porridge with one hand. Nancy takes another spoonful of porridge, watching Flo eye the spoonful approaching her mouth doubtfully, clearly making up her mind as to whether or not to open her lips. She nudges her schoolbag under the table, to protect it-she's not going to be able to take it to secondary school with her, when she'd have to carry it round with her. It's custom-made, with one of her own drawings on and her name in huge letters, so there's no chance of anyone else walking off with it.

"Oh." Mum drops the envelope she's holding, then picks it up again. "Oh. Look."

"What is-here, sweetheart-" Dad shifts Flo round so she can lean into the crook of his arm, having finally consented to take the porridge into her mouth. "What, what is it?"

Mum holds up the letter. Nancy squints at it, but all she makes out is the name of the council on the envelope. Dad takes a look at it, then raises an eyebrow at Mum.

"What is it?" Elwen asks, glancing across the table at Mum. Dad's tearing open the envelope, glancing at Nancy quickly, who glances at Mum, who's looking at Nancy. Flo, on the other hand, drums her koala on the table and sings quietly to herself, before tugging at her father's hand for another spoonful.

"Hang on a tick, sweetheart-" Dad pulls out a letter, glances at Nancy again. Nancy swallows her mouthful of porridge.

"What is it?" she asks, glancing at Mum, her heart starting to thud. She immediately starts trying to remember if she's done anything at school that would warrant a letter home, but all she can remember is her and Lola whispering in the Eucharist last week, and while Miss Thompson might be strict, Nancy's pretty sure it wouldn't make her mum let her dad open the post.

Mum glances at Dad quickly, who's looking at the address at the top of the letter like it might morph into something else if he stares hard enough. Then she glances at Nancy. "It's your school, Nance. Your-where you're going to secondary-"

"Where's she going?" Elwen stands up, pushing the chair back, trying to look over his father's shoulder. Flo squawks indignantly as Dad has to lean to one side to prevent Elwen grabbing it. "Let me see-"

"Oi-" Dad wrestles away from him, as Nancy scrambles down from the table, running round the table to shove Elwen away from it.

"Leave it-" Mum comes round the other side, Flo making an indignant sound as Elwen almost squashes her face in his eagerness to see the paper. "Oi-you'll end up _ripping_ the bloody thing-"

"Yeah, it's _my_ letter-"

"Well, it's addressed to us, so let me-let me-" Dad holds it out of their reach, getting to his feet and holding Flo in his other arm. "Here, let me-"

"What does it say?"

"I haven't got the bloody thing open yet!" Dad shakes the paper loose, then looks at it, before squinting and looking it again.

"Have you got your glasses-"

"Oh, for God's sake, I've got the bloody thing upside down!" Dad turns the paper the right way round as Elwen nestles into his side, Nancy squirming round to the other. "What does it _say?"_

"Fine, here, here, it says-" Dad squints at it, holding the paper in front of him, then starts to read.

* * *

There aren't any cameras outside this morning, which means Ed can get into the car, light only just creeping across the sky, without having to stop. Rachel is sitting in the back, along with Bob, who, mercifully, lets Ed get in without having to say anything.

"Sleep all right?" Rachel's on her phone. Ed turns away, yanking his suit tighter around him, having rehearsed the words over and over again in his head, rearranging them, playing with the order, trying to get them to sound careless enough, small enough.

_"Hi. It's me."_

_"Who?"_

_Ed had winced. It still hurts. It shouldn't, but it does._

_"Ed. It'th me." He'd nearly said "your brother." But he couldn't, quite. He just couldn't._

_"Oh." David's voice had been cool. Not a friendly "Oh." But he hadn't put the phone down, either. He hadn't said he was busy._

_"How are you?" Ed had hated himself for being the one to ask._

_"I'm good." David never sounds like he's boasting, which makes it worse. "We've just got the boys to bed-I'm helping Louise with dinner, actually-"_

_Ed had tried to remember the last time they'd had dinner all together, the four of them._

_"Isn't it pretty late in London, anyway?" David's voice had been light, careful, but Ed had still winced._

_"It'th not that late. I'm-" He'd looked at the clock. "I'm jutht-working."_

_"Oh. Must be-what-one, there? Pretty late."_

_"I th-suppose." The word there had been like a flinch in Ed's chest. As if David had forgotten what it was like to be there. As if it might as well be another planet. Maybe to him, it might._

_"Well." David had cleared his throat. "Is there anything you need?"_

_Ed had felt something crumple in his chest. The phone had slipped between his fingers._

_"Um-"_

"Now, we're heading to Hastings-" Rachel leans across Bob. "So-look, try and take any stupid jokes Marc'll have put in about Harold and his eye out of the speech, they'll have heard it a hundred times already-"

"I-um-" Ed clears his throat, the words suddenly too big to get out, making him swallow hard, as though trying to keep them in. "I-ah-I-what you asked me, about David-I-I asked him-"

_"The thing is-" Ed had cleared his throat, tried to make the words come out a little louder. He'd glanced fleetingly at the doorway, making sure it was empty. "I-um-Rachel and I-my advisers-we've been talking."_

_"Talking?"_

_"About the election campaign." Ed had swallowed, hating himself for having to force the words out._

_"Have you?" David's tone was mild, lightly interested, as though commenting on the weather with a stranger when you'd really rather be doing something else. Ed's fingers had curled, the phone pressing into his damp palm._

_ I won this. For God's sake, I won this. Stop making me- _

_"Yeth." Ed had cleared his throat again, trying desperately to ignore the lisp. "They-we've been talking, about the next few monthth, and the thing ith-they-they thought it would be a nithe idea-"_

_Nice. Nice. Stupid word._

_"That is-if you-if you came back." Ed had squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip. "I mean-jutht for a few eventth. They think it could really help."_

_There'd been a silence. Ed had turned away from the mirror over the fireplace, not wanting to see his own reflection._

_ I won this. I won this from you.... _

_David's voice had been light but curled with something in his ear. It might have been a smirk. It might not have been. "Came back?"_

Rachel looks up at him, her blonde hair almost tumbling out of its' usual iron-straight bob. "You've spoken to David?"

Bob is more controlled, but Ed can almost feel the sudden stillness in his body, the tautness hoping in his chest. He feels slightly sick and looks away, a sudden metallic taste in his mouth, making him want to spit.

"Yeah" he says, hoping to God his voice won't crack. "I-I athked him, but-um-I-"

* * *

Dad reads down the papers. _"Dear Mr and Mrs Cameron-"_

"Yeah, we know who we are-"

_"I am writing to inform you that your daughter, Nancy Gwendoline Beatrice Cameron-"_

"Yeah, we know who _I_ am-" Nancy tries to grab the letter, but Dad holds it out of reach, scanning the page.

_"-born 19th January 2004-"_

"Yeah, we know when my birthday is-"

 _"-has been offered-has been offered a place at-"_ Dad looks up. "Dramatic pause-shall I do the dramatic pause?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Mum grabs the letter, only for Dad to grab it back. _"Offered a place at The Grey Coat-"_

 _"The Grey Coat Hospital."_ Dad grins at her, handing the letter to Nancy. "Well done, sweetheart."

"Oh, _brilliant-"_ Mum grabs the letter herself, reading it quickly. "Fantastic-"

"I got in?" Nancy shakes her head, still trying to catch up and reaching for the letter herself.

"Yeah, you got in, you're-you're going to Grey Coat-" Dad pulls her into his side, pressing a kiss to her head. "Brilliant-"

Elwen, now that the excitement's over, half-nudges his sister affectionately and sits back down at the table. Florence, meanwhile, is straining to get back to her porridge, and Dad, still hugging Nancy into his side, has to juggle her carefully. "Here-I'll sit down in a moment, Flo, let me just-"

Mum hugs her, letting Nancy snuggle into her, breathing in her perfume. "Well done, Nance-"

"Did I get in on the test?"

"Not sure-" Mum scans the letter, still in her other hand, then handing it to Nancy. "It doesn't say-it must have been that or the religion."

"We are pretty near" Dad offers, sitting down with Flo settling back into his lap and reaching for her porridge spoon again.

"I know, but-"

Nancy glances up, but Mum shakes her head. "Anyway, you'll be with Bea again, Nance."

"Not _with"_ Nancy points out, Dad giving her a final squeeze as she heads back to her own chair. "She'll be Year Eight."

"Yeah, but you'll see each other round school, won't you-"

Nancy reads the letter herself, her heart thudding more slowly now. She'd been pretty sure she'd end up going to Grey Coat anyway, but it's still nice to know _something_ about what'll be happening soon, even if it's only one thing, which reminds her, and she glances up to find Mum glancing at Dad again, who just shrugs and gives her a wink, letting Flo settle more comfortably on his knee as he gives her another spoonful of porridge.

* * *

_"Jutht for a few events." Ed could hear his own voice, slightly wheedling, and he'd cringed inwardly, hating himself. "It could-Alathtair really thinkth it could help too-show a united campaign, that thort of thing..."_

_He'd waited, heart thudding. He's always waited for David._

_"I'm pretty busy the next few months, to be honest" David says, after letting the moments stretch out. "Events with the IRC and things. You know, if you'd asked me earlier-"_

_ You know why it took so long to ask you, you bastard. _

_"Alathtair thinkth it could really help." Ed had gritted his teeth, hating the fact he was pleading, that David would know his advisers wanted him to plead. That David still got this, even though it's five years later and Ed won, for God's sake. He won._

_"Well, he hasn't been in touch." David's voice had sounded light, almost dismissive. "But I guess I'll have to tell him the same thing. You know-it just-and it'd be a lot of disruption for us, for the boys-"_

_"You fly all round the world." Ed hadn't known he was going to say it until he'd said it. "You fly around the world, all the time."_

_David's voice had curled slightly this time. "Well, that makes the time I get with them all the more important, doesn't it?"_

_Ed's cheeks had burnt. He'd glanced towards the door, almost reflexively, but of course neither of the boys had been there. He'd remembered that moment again, six years ago, of David hugging Jacob into his chest, pressing kisses into his hair, Daniel snuggled into their mother's lap, Justine looking away._

_"It would really help." His own voice had been too tight. "It would help-not just the voterth, but the campaign-the party. To th-show-to bring both thideth of the party together."_

_"I'd have thought you'd have done that, already." David's voice had still been light. As though this was just another conversation._

_ I hate you. I hate you. _

_"To-it could help to make th-sure the party feelth united." Ed's voice had almost cracked on the last word. "To help the public thee uth ath-together. That we've-you know, the-that we've moved on."_

"And?" Rachel's looking far too excited. Ed immediately regrets looking round. Bob, next to her, tenses his jaw, his eyes not leaving Ed's face.

Ed swallows hard, glances down, forces a smile.

"He-he doesn't think it would be thuch a good idea." The words nearly stick in his throat but not quite.

_There'd been a silence, then. Ed had stood there, heart beating faster, feeling suddenly sick._

_"We've moved on?"_

_It was a question. Ed knew it was. But he could hear the twist of the words, curling with his brother's mouth. He'd squeezed his eyes shut._

_"It wath jutht an idea" he'd said, something thudding heavily in his chest. "It-I thought you'd want to help. With the-both th-ideth of the party."_

_There'd been a breath, two, of silence. Then,_

_"But I wouldn't want to get in your way." David's voice had sounded so fair, so reasonable, that Ed's eyes had opened. "The focus should be on you, as the leader."_

_Ed had waited, trying not to hope, teeth digging into his lip, almost trembling._

_"I mean-" David had almost laughed, but not quite. "Wasn't that the point? You said you wanted to move on from-what I represent."_

_ I hate you. _

_Ed had closed his eyes, swallowing hard._

_"That maketh thenthe." He'd managed to force the words out past the lump in his throat. His whole body had been taut, tight. "That-um-I thuppose-"_

_"Yeah." David's voice is light, reasonable. Anyone listening would take him seriously. "Anything else?"_

_Ed had swallowed._

_ Why are you-when are we-why-how do you do this, all the time, every time- _

_But he was waiting._

_"No" he'd said, the word somehow not breaking. "No, that-that wath it."_

_"All right." David had sounded faintly amused by something. "I'd better go-I'm meant to be helping Louise-"_

_"Yeah" Ed had spoken too quickly. "Yeah, sure."_

_"See you soon." David had said the words easily, lightly. They'd hurt in Ed's chest._

_"Yeah" he'd said. "Thee you."_

_The line was already dead._

_Ed had stood there, staring at it for a while, his eyes prickling, listening to the silence._

Ed's staring out of the window, away from Rachel.

"Can't you-so he's not doing it then?"

Ed manages a quick shake of the head.

"Ed-" He knows Rachel's looking at Bob for support. "Couldn't we-I mean, maybe I should talk to him-"

"He's not doing it." Ed's voice is too loud. "He's not doing it, Rachel."

"But we-"

"It's a good thing." Ed's voice is definitely too loud now. "It's a good thing. He's right, what he said. It would take us back. That'th not what the country wantth to thee." He turns back to the window, pressing his forehead against the glass, digging his teeth into his knuckle until it hurts. "It'th the right thing" he repeats, the words stinging his mouth.

There's a short silence. Rachel draws in a breath, clearly about to launch into something else.

"That's fine." Bob's voice is quiet, pre-empting Rachel's attempt at speech. "That's fine. Right. Now, I've got some lines for you to take in Hastings-"

Ed can sense Rachel giving Bob a quick, angry look, but Bob is silent for only a moment, and after a second, Ed feels her sink back in her seat, can almost feel the impatient look she gives Bob, but letting it rest, for now.

Ed doesn't turn round. He stares out of the window, listening to Bob's words without grasping them, counting the number of lampposts they pass, the number of trees, the number of houses, until the lump in his throat is smaller, until his eyes are completely dry, the pain in his chest slowly subsiding to the dull ache that he's used to, that lives there all the time.

* * *

"I'll do it" Nancy announces, taking her last spoonful of porridge.

Dad looks up at her-Mum's in the bathroom with Flo, getting her into her uniform. "Do what?"

"The filming tomorrow." Nancy pushes her bowl away from her, reaches for the toothbrush from the jar in the middle of the table. "I'll do it. As long as you don't show my face."

Dad stares at her for a second. "Are you sure?"

Nancy looks up at him. "Yeah."

Dad looks at Elwen. "Do you want to do it? You don't have to-"

Elwen, glancing between his father and his sister, shrugs, characteristically. "Yeah. It's cool."

Nancy, grabbing the toothpaste before Elwen can, meets her father's gaze. "We're just eating breakfast, right?"

Dad nods. "Yeah, you won't be-Mummy and I won't let your faces be shown, I promise, it'll just be-you know, sitting at the table with us like when you were little."

Nancy nods. She can do that. If it keeps them living here, she can do that.

If it keeps Dad's job, she can definitely do that. Especially, Nancy thinks with a touch of defiance, if all those people who hate him have to watch it too.

"Good" she says. "I'll do it, then."

And with that, she seizes her toothbrush and marches off to the bathroom, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she goes, the letter that's telling her one place she's going to be soon, at least, lying on the table behind her.

* * *

_Playlist_

 _Jealousy-Best Coast-" _ _We try to get along all the time/But it's hard/I look at you, you look at me/What do you see?/We share the same cares, the same ideas/Why don't you like me/Why don't you like me?/What's with the jealousy?"_

 _Undisclosed Desires-Muse _ _-"I know you've suffered/But I don't want you to hide/It's cold and loveless/I won't let you be denied/I want to reconcile the violence in your heart/I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask/I want to exorcise the demons from your past/I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart/You trick your lovers/That you're wicked and divine/You may be a sinner/But your innocence is mine"_

 _White Flag-Joseph-" _ _Your yelling's getting loud/Keep it down now, keep it down now/There's talk going round this town/Keep it down now, keep it down now/Noises closing in from all sides/Warning all the ways to die...I could surrender but I'd just be pretending, no I'd/Rather be dead than live a lie/Burn the white flag!/Burn the white flag!"_

 _Delicate-Taylor Swift-".. _ _We can't make/Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink/Dive bar on the East Side, where you at?/Phone lights up my nightstand in the black/Come here, you can meet me in the back...Is it cool that I said all that?/Is it chill that you're in my head?/'Cause I know that it's delicate..Long night with your hands up in my hair/Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs/Stay here, honey, I don't wanna share...Is it cool that I said all that?/Is it chill that you're in my head?/'Cause I know this is delicate"_

 _Run-Vampire Weekend-" _ _Every dollar counts/And every morning hurts/We mostly work to live/Until we live to work...Honey with you/Is the only honest way to go/And I could take two/But I couldn't ever really know...So lead my feet away/'Cos all they'll do is stay/And I don't think your eyes/Have ever looked surprised"_

 _Drag-Placebo _ _-"You're always ahead of the game/I drag behind/You never get caught in the rain/When I'm drenched to the bone every time/You're the first one to swim across the Seine/I lag behind/You're always ahead of the game/While I drag behind...You're always ahead of the pack/I drag behind/You possess every trait that I lack/By coincidence or by design/You're the monkey I've got on my back/That tells me to shine/You're always ahead of the pack/While I drag behind..You're always ahead of the rest/While I'm always on time/You got As on your algebra tests/I failed and they kept me behind/I just got to get off my chest/That I think you're divine/You're always ahead of the rest/While I drag behind/I drag behind/I drag behind/I drag behind, I drag behind"_

 _I Can't Be With You-The Cranberries-" _ _Lying in my bed again/And I cry because you're not here/Crying in my head again/And I know that it's not clear/Put your hands, put your hands/Inside my face and see that it's just you/But it's bad and it's mad/ And it's making me sad/Because I can't be with you/Be with you, be with you...And my head, and my head/On anyone's shoulder/'Cause I can't be with you...'Cause you're not here, you're not here/Baby, I can't be with you/'Cause you're not here, you're not here/Baby, still in love with you"_

* * *

_As Straw plotted in the shadows, the first public strike was launched by David Miliband at the end of July (2008). The Foreign Secretary set out his own recovery plan for Labour in a piece for the Guardian calling for a **"a radical new phase."** It was a manque manifesto for the leadership. Not one in the course of a 975-word article did he mention the name of the Prime Minister. Presented as a critique of David Cameron, much of it could be read, as it was intended to be read, as an attack on the failings of Gordon Brown. **"I disagreed with Margaret Thatcher, but at least it was clear what she stood for"** wrote Miliband. At a time when Brown was widely mocked for being visionless, disturbing and arrogant, the Foreign Secretary added that **"we must be more humble about our shortcomings but more compelling about our achievements."** He went on: **"In government, unless you choose sides, you get found out."** Miliband's move looked highly aggressive, though in some ways he was defensively trying to prevent anyone else from overhauling him as the most likely successor. Having failed to contest Brown for the premiership in 2007, he felt pressure to advertise his readiness to take over. **"He had to settle the cojones question"** said one of his nascent campaign team. **"He's pinned them on now."** The Prime Minister was incandescent. He saw this as a betrayal when he had given Miliband the promotion to the Foreign Office that he had never got from Blair. There was a hot debate within his court about how he should deal with the threat. Brown was initially sympathetic to the view of some advisers that he should feign being relaxed. **"If we attack Miliband, we'll only give him momentum"** argued one of his aides. Brown responded: **"That's exactly my view."** Ed Balls then convened a conference call with Ian Austin, Damian McBride and Tom Watson. The attack dog view prevailed. **"It was decided to go for him."** Off-the-record briefings to the press were employed to denounce Miliband as **"immature" "self-serving"** and **"disloyal."**_

_This backfired. Brown looked panicked while Miliband was not deterred. In subsequent appearances before the media that week, the Foreign Secretary confirmed that he was putting his ambitions on the map. On a radio phone-in show, a caller urged him to **"put up a leadership challenge and get that God-awful man Brown out."** Rather than contradict her, Miliband joked: **"That's not one of my stooges, I promise."** _

_There was some consolation for the Prime Minister. The Foreign Secretary moved unilaterally without consulting any of the other would-be regicides. He had shown a draft of his Guardian article to James Purnell, but discussed his plans with hardly anyone else. **"He didn't tell any of us"** says a former Cabinet minister at the heart of the plotting. Miliband in turn complained that colleagues failed to rally to his standard. His timing was poor. He made his move just as Parliament was heading into its summer break. The minds of MPs were already on the beach. If they were going to deal the death blow to their leader, it would not be in August. That gave the Prime Minister the summer holidays to hatch a plan for his survival.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The Cabinet was in despair and leadership speculation was rising to fever pitch. For Ed Miliband, however, it was a time to be loyal to the leader who by all accounts **"adored"** him like a son. Ed agreed to defend Brown on Newsnight as best he could. The following day the party was due to meet at Warwick University for a policy forum. The mood was palpably dire. Previously loyal Cabinet ministers and special advisers were refusing to rule out an impending change to the leadership..Dutifully, Ed gave Brown's awful oration a standing ovation from the back of the hall. His brother, meanwhile, was less intent on propping up Brown. Over the weekend, David and his advisers had decided that he needed to make a significant intervention. To this day, David denies that what followed was a leadership challenge, and technically it is hard to dispute this. But the effect was devastating, first for Brown, then for the brothers, and ultimately for David himself._

_On the evening of Monday 28 July (2008) political editors in the corridors of the Commons' press gallery were contacted by Sarah Schaefer, one of David's two special advisers. She was giving the **"heads up"** on a piece David had written for the following day's Guardian. She told at least one of the journalists, in reference to recurrent criticism that the Foreign Secretary had done nothing to challenge Brown: " **You think David hasn't got balls? See tomorrow's Guardian."..**.Significantly, however, it contained not a single reference to Gordon Brown...It concluded cryptically: **"In government, unless you choose sides, you get found out. New Labour won three elections by offering real change, not just in policy but in the way we do politics. We must do so again. So let's stop feeling sorry for ourselves, enjoy a break, and then find the confidence to make our case afresh."..**_

_Gordon Brown, who was about to take a few days' holiday with Sarah, hit the phones. One of the first people he spoke to was an agonised Ed Miliband, caught between his boss and his brother. Ed had not been warned by his brother about the provocative article. He relayed this to a livid Brown, who bluntly-and perhaps unfairly-asked Ed what was going on. Crucially, Ed also spoke to David, who assured his brother that this was not a leadership challenge and that he was entitled to speak out-surely the whole Cabinet should be coming up with plans and ideas? **"What else could I have done?"** he asked defensively. **"Well, you could have done it differently" r** eplied an exasperated Ed. At this stage Ed could rebuke his brother privately but understandably did not feel he could attack him publicly...But the significance of the episode in terms of the brothers' relationship should not be underestimated. Ed Miliband had a choice to make, between loyalty to his brother and loyalty to Brown. He chose the latter. As he told friends at the time, **"I am not my brother's keeper."** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_David Miliband was the first figure in the government to openly strike out against the Prime Minister, albeit using the circuitous device of an opinion piece in the Guardian. When it appeared on 30 July, it was widely interpreted as the Foreign Secretary setting out his credentials for the Labour leadership. The article highlighted the lack of a a clear Labour agenda and called for a " **radical"** new phase for the party. Significantly, Brown's name was not mentioned. An immediate reaction came from former Europe minister, Denis MacShane, who described it as being **"like a breath of fresh air after the self-indulgent solipsism from Warwick (University, at Brown's speech.)"** Despite repeated invitations to do so on BBC Radio 2's Jeremy Vine Show, Miliband pointedly refused to endorse Brown's leadership. He defended his article by insisting that it was a duty of a senior Cabinet minister to set out Labour's vision for the future. Outside the studio, with momentum growing behind him, he signed autographs for waiting members of the public, inserting the word **"not"** into a Daily Telegraph headline that read **"Labour at** War." However, he still put his signature underneath the headline, **"immediately creating a memorable image, and disproving the truth of his amendment."** From Suffolk, Brown watched the unfolding events with dismay. **"Gordon was very unsteady"** says one aide. His reaction to Miliband oscillated wildly. At one time he would say: " **David's been a bit silly and overshot himself."** However, when his anger got the better of him he changed his tune: **"I made him Foreign Secretary and this is how I'm being** **repaid."** Sarah Brown, in particular, never forgave David Miliband for sparking this round of leadership speculation and it turned her deeply against him. In future, he was always referred to as **"that man who ruined our summer holiday."**_

_What was Miliband's thinking? Before it was published he had shown the article to MP Barry Sheerman (who says he **"was delighted with it")** and Cabinet ally James Purnell, as well as consulting a limited circle of close colleagues. None of them sought to dissuade him from his planned course of action. A Foreign Office official, who was with Miliband that morning in the Foreign Secretary's residence at 1 Carlton Gardens, asked him why he had written it. His answer was less than illuminating: **"There's a time in one's life when a man has to do what a man has to do."** However, as their conversation continued, it emerged that Miliband thought Brown was completely unfit for the job and would damage the Labour Party if he remained Leader. Brown phoned Sinclair in Number 10 and asked for his thoughts on how to respond. **"Act relaxed"** was the reply. **"If you respond by attacking him, you will only give the story momentum. The article was far more about boosting his own prospects than undermining you."** Brown said this was his view as well, and the matter might have rested there, but for the intervention of Brown's attack dogs, Balls, McBride, Austin and Watson, who decided this was the moment for a display of force. Briefings against Miliband duly appeared in the papers, characterising the Foreign Secretary as " **disloyal", "self-serving"** and **"lacking in judgement."** The following night, Sinclair's phone rang. **"You said you would make this go away. You said you would close it down"** Brown screamed down the line. **"It's not possible when Balls and McBride are running their own media operation. I can't put out the fires if my own Number 10 colleagues are arsonists"** Sinclair replied. **"I can't have splits in my press office, I'll sort this out"** said Brown, before hanging up. Steve Richards, ever an astute observer, wrote a penetrating piece in The Independent about the bifurcated Downing Street media operation, quoting one MP who demanded that the briefers **"be sacked."** -Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_If Miliband had pushed hard at this point, Brown's divided citadel might have fallen. But the would-be assassin was not certain he wanted to pull the trigger or that, if he did, his bid would succeed. Displaying the same indecision he had shown when Blair called on him to challenge Brown in early 2007, he dithered over exactly what he hoped to achieve by writing the article. One close associate explains: **"He knew people were looking to him; he felt he had to test the water."** But his effort was half-baked: even though his special adviser had briefed the article heavily to political journalists the night before, telling one, **"You think David hasn't got balls? See tomorrow's Guardian",** Miliband himself (who has always denied he was trying to launch a leadership bid) failed to give those MPs and Cabinet colleagues that were prepared to come out against Brown sufficient warning about what he was planning. Brown's relationship with Miliband had been characterised by deep distrust for some years, exacerbated by the cat-and-mouse game played by Blair in his final months. Back then, Brown's team decided to adopt a **"good cop, bad cop"** approach to the younger man to deter him from standing for the leadership. Brown courted him with a charm offensive and offered him the post of Foreign Secretary and said he would back Miliband for deputy leader if he agreed to support Brown's claim to the Labour leadership publicly. This was combined with an implicit threat that, if he mounted a rival bid, Miliband would feel the wrath of the Brown machine and risk his credibility being damage profoundly. **"David was going to be dealt with in a brutal way, as others had been before him if he dared so much as to stand. It was intensely unpleasant"** says one member of the Brown camp. Things did not improve for Miliband during Brown's premiership: a member of Miliband's team says that during his spell at the Foreign Office they had to spend up to half their time neutralising negative briefing emanating from Number 10. **"There was a deep and endless suspicion from Brown and the Brownites, but one has to say that David's actions helped keep that suspicion alive"** says a Foreign Office official. Brown was in a complete funk. Who should he listen to-the calming voices or his storm troopers? He almost invariably chose the latter, believing he needed the brutal form of machine politics represented by McBride now more than ever. Brown also listened to Balls, Austin and Watson as they told him what they thought of David's brother, Ed Miliband. A Number 10 insider recalls: **"Ed Balls was whispering in Gordon's ear: "You can't trust Ed Miliband any more.""** Some believe that Balls and his acolytes wanted to use this opportunity to weaken the younger Miliband whom they considered a potential threat to Balls's own leadership ambitions. They told Brown that the two brothers were very close and that it would have been impossible for Ed not to have known what David was planning (in fact the elder brother had not warned his sibling about his provocative article, and Ed was said to be deeply frustrated by David's destabilising intervention.) Ed Miliband's relationship with Balls had already significantly degenerated following the fall out from the election that never was, and this incident worsened it still further, while also weakening his relationship with Brown. The situation was not helped by the Prime Minister's disappointment with what he saw as Ed's lack of energy in the Cabinet Office post and failure to bring cohesion to government policy.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nancy's schoolbag and skirt mentioned here:http://dailym.ai/2QR50rQ  
> https://shutr.bz/2Jn1TUw  
> https://shutr.bz/2UnvaVx  
> https://shutr.bz/39ovAzk  
> https://shutr.bz/2vWa47l  
> https://shutr.bz/39waxuN  
> The cartoon on Nancy's wall:https://bit.ly/33Th9C6  
> Nancy does tell the story of her dad leaving her in the pub, standing on a table:https://bit.ly/2yaxaYs  
> Nancy's memories of being filmed in the park:https://bit.ly/2QSI4IX  
> https://bit.ly/33QmDxz  
> https://bit.ly/2QS6xye  
> https://bit.ly/2UnVWwU  
> https://bit.ly/2Jj3RoY  
> https://bit.ly/33Wl2Gj  
> https://bit.ly/2Jirnm9  
> https://bit.ly/2JyhlgV  
> https://bit.ly/2UKYyUr  
> George saying Nancy'd be an It-Girl:https://bit.ly/3bvB3Wd  
> Nancy sewing and customising her own clothes:https://bit.ly/39oT5It  
> https://bit.ly/39wa0sN  
> https://bit.ly/2QQTME0  
> https://bit.ly/3aolik0  
> https://bit.ly/2WRDSgm  
> https://bit.ly/3dALaee  
> Nancy's secondary school announcement:https://bit.ly/3aHafCs  
> http://dailym.ai/2R8zSoc  
> Sam using mood boards:https://bit.ly/3bvj02y  
> The Princess Diana cloak:https://bit.ly/2vVxnOt  
> It was Justine's idea for Ed to run against his brother:http://dailym.ai/2wxzrg5  
> http://dailym.ai/3aqFmC7  
> That week's PMQs:https://bit.ly/3dBMNbK  
> The "it's not like we're brothers" clip:https://bbc.in/2xyONAN  
> https://bit.ly/2UooOoG  
> The Florence story & the kids having bereavement counselling:http://dailym.ai/2WPULb6  
> David having to miss Ivan's birthday the year after he died:http://dailym.ai/2JnZJE6  
> Justine's tone with kids:https://bit.ly/39oQVbP  
> Justine calling Sam "Mr Sam":https://bit.ly/2JmY0io  
> Bea's play and the other parents' comments:http://dailym.ai/2JmJura  
> https://bit.ly/39psv1R  
> Bea's train station anecdote and the Gove Out signs:http://dailym.ai/3bpJOkO  
> https://bit.ly/2JnHyi4  
> Sebastian is Dave's friend:http://dailym.ai/2Jmf3Bb  
> The Camerons banning Coke:http://dailym.ai/3dAKCoG  
> The three Bethnal Green girls were a major news story:https://bit.ly/2Up2dbP  
> https://bbc.in/2wMmkYr  
> https://bbc.in/2UpOUry  
> https://bbc.in/2QPQsc0  
> If you want to know more, there are two documentaries and two books about the case:https://bit.ly/2vUEu9U  
> https://bit.ly/2yaM0hz  
> https://bit.ly/3byqaDk  
> https://bit.ly/2QRmkwV  
> The Lee Rigby murder was an infamous terror attack:https://bit.ly/2UG5TF6  
> https://bit.ly/3arA4X0  
> The buildup to backstage between Ed and the others: http://dailym.ai/33TPuAM  
> https://bit.ly/2ygcf6u  
> https://bit.ly/39m5vAV  
> http://dailym.ai/2UJmcAJ  
> https://bit.ly/2ygetmm  
> http://dailym.ai/2WQGTxm  
> Ed asking "What have I done to David?":https://bit.ly/3dDHHLU  
> David did visit baby Sam but refused to spend Christmas with Ed:https://bit.ly/2WLDxvL  
> https://bit.ly/2WNnKwe  
> David M not returning for the 2015 campaign:http://dailym.ai/2QUY6Ce  
> David M wrote an article criticising Brown's leadership at the height of his problems as PM:https://bit.ly/3dCLGZq  
> Ed asking David M to be his shadow Chancellor:https://bit.ly/3dys9Jr  
> David M's positive proposals line:https://bit.ly/2X10VFN  
> Nick R's diagnosis:https://bbc.in/2yaRqcp  
> David's dislike of Cummings, Gove's former adviser who is now chief adviser to Boris Johnson, and was chief strategist for the Leave campaign:https://bit.ly/2wHj28E  
> https://bit.ly/2xtAcXu  
> http://dailym.ai/2UsSrFL  
> The film Brexit: The Uncivil War centred around Cummings, played by Benedict Cumberbatch:https://bit.ly/33TUYeQ  
> https://bbc.in/2Jn10LG  
> Ed's speech at Battersea Arts Centre:https://bit.ly/3bytJJK  
> https://bit.ly/2WWyoAO  
> Nick saying he regretted sitting next to Dave:https://bit.ly/33TAMtN  
> Straw and Rifkind had resigned after being secretly filmed offering their services as politicians:https://bbc.in/33QOOfL  
> https://bbc.in/39phfT1  
> Tristram Hunt was to the right of the party and would resign due to the direction of the party under Corbyn:https://bit.ly/2WWfFWp  
> Him refusing to rule out sending his kids to private school:https://bit.ly/2ULzpJx  
> Tom's wife is an heiress who famously replied "Just 16" when she was asked how many millions she was worth:http://dailym.ai/39sJzUy  
> http://dailym.ai/2vRTuFs  
> David Laws talking about his sexuality:https://on.ft.com/3dxastQ  
> https://bit.ly/2UqSQIo  
> Ed's business speech and tuition fees announcement:https://bit.ly/2WQwQZq  
> https://bbc.in/2Jm42Qq  
> The infamous dress:https://bit.ly/2UphiKn  
> Ed thinking it was white and gold:https://bit.ly/2y8vRt0  
> The Blair-Murdoch "flirting":https://bit.ly/3dDJh0i  
> Ed coming into conflict with Gordon over Heathrow:https://bit.ly/2QSABcL


	5. Practise Makes Perfect, An Entanglement Of Education And An Invitation Of Imminence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which skeletons aren't always satisfactory, Haribo can be passive-aggressive and Frozen isn't a book."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes for this chapter refer to Alastair being furious at the Blairs' choice of schools, Peter and Gordon falling out and the upsides to leaving Downing Street.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_"Katie swallows hard and tips her head back against the car seat. Maybe Emily's wrong, she thinks. Maybe Effy doesn't love her, but this is good enough. It's good enough." -The Kite, brocanteur (Skins fanficton)_

_Freddie: We'd be good together, don't you think?_

_Effy: No._

_Freddie: Why not?_

_Effy: Because I'll break your heart._

_Freddie: Maybe I'll break yours'._

_Effy: Nobody breaks my heart._

_-Skins _ _, s35ep, "Freddie"_

_"Wait, so which one of us is the coward here? Because I would rather talk about people getting shot than talk about him kissing me, and how pathetic is that? Right now I want to crawl back in bed rather than talk about anything real. It's so much easier to debate and argue over this shit that has nothing to do with us or how we feel. Random people that happen to die in our random city." -Gone, Gone, Gone, Hannah Moskowitz_

_"Sometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, I've got up in a sudden terror...I've persuaded my conscience that it was a duty to warn him how people talked regarding his ways, and then I've recollected...and, hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched from re-entering...doubting if I could bear to be taken at my word."- Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte_

* * *

_You know, at my kids' school, they say, the teacher says-er, er-"One, two, three, eyes on me" and the kids have to say "One, two, eyes on you."_

_-Ed Miliband, speaking in 2017_

_I'm a cricket fan, so I love cricket, and my kids love cricket-I've been trying to, I'm hoping to get them into baseball..I think the other thing, by the way, just to think about why I was attracted to it, and I think this is why my kids might quite like it too, is the sort of maths of it. Because I was quite a maths-I was quite into maths as a kid and somehow, all of the averages and-I mean, you know, Americans do the stats so brilliantly, you know, they sit down, they have sort of sabremetric stats, you know, all of that, you know, it's just that ii-you could sort of spend hours looking at the different statistics, and all that, which I don't think, for one, even for these days, British football-er-doesn't do in quite the same way..Even cricket, as well, cricket doesn't have quite the stats of baseball, but, you know, I notice that-particularly my older son-is really interested into the-in the maths and the, the, and the stats, so definitely._

[ _-E_ _d Miliband,speaking in 2018_ ](https://www.blogtalkradio.com/batflipsandnerds/2018/01/16/episode-61--ed-miliband-joins-the-show)

_Samantha: **After many years commuting into Central London to do, to my previous job-and then, you know, often not being able to take the children to school or pick them up from school, being that much nearer home and the children's school was, you know, one of the things that was-I was really keen to, to manage and have my office really close by...**_

_Samantha S: **I just want to ask you to sort of reflect on that-the years that you had there (in Downing Street) and then sort of, really, the sudden overnight departure and getting used to being back in your own family home again, what was that shift like sort of both ways, going into Downing Street and coming out and going back into your family home?**_

_Samantha: **Err-I was very nervous about moving into Downing Street at the time. We tried to stay in our own home but, for security reasons, they were like "It's just not practical." Erm-so we moved to Downing Street, and actually, we did manage to create a really happy family life there over six years, and it was where my daughter Florence was born. We moved all our own furniture from home in and we really tried to make it feel like home-erm-and I think we did that quite successfully, but, at the same time, we tried not to change as much as possible in the rest of our life, knowing that we might be there for a very short time, so I stayed in the same job, the children went to the same school, we-we made a real effort to see all our, our kind of old friends, family. So when we did move home, erm-it happened very quickly, which I think is quite a good thing. Erm-I was told on the Monday that we were moving out and-after Andrea Leadsom had stood down in the Tory leadership campaign and we thought we wouldn't move out until September and this was in July-and Dave rang me-it was a really busy week of work and (he) rang me on the Monday afternoon and said "Erm, darling, we're moving out on Wednesday." (laughing)....So...yeah, get packing-er-which I did. Well, actually, we moved out on Wednesday, then I came back in and got packing and got it all out sort of two days later. And so moving back home was lovely, it was lovely for the-I think the children, particularly the older ones, were beginning to feel the strain of having a parent-erm-who-obviously, everybody knows who they are, they have a huge responsibility to people's lives and the country. So I think, for them, that eased the, the pressure as they were heading into being teenage and-we moved back to our-erm-old home and all their, we're much nearer all their schoolfriends, so it was, you know, it was a really nice transition.** -[Samantha Cameron, speaking about her time in Downing Street in 2018](https://audioboom.com/posts/6992520-ep-6-samantha-cameron-on-how-she-makes-her-marriage-work-should-you-compliment-your-children-an)_

* * *

_For Ed Miliband-who faced a huge amount of comment about his looks, much of it rather mean-spirited-getting his make-up done was an important part of the PMQs ritual. This normally happened at about 11 a.m., just when the pressure was ratcheting up, and always by one of his female staff..The same process was going on on the other side, it turns out, with the same expectation about who was responsible: Gabby Bertin, David Cameron's press secretary, told us that she would occasionally apply make-up to the Prime Minister's face just before PMQs, but **"the thing is the research hasn't been done into it, so he hasn't gone down to the Clinique counter and had a match, so on the rare occasions we put make-up on I would generally be there with my own compact. It wasn't ideal."** In this case, there were definitely girls' jobs and boys' jobs.-Punch And Judy Politics: An Insiders' Guide To Prime Minister's Questions, Ayesha Hazarika And Tom Hamilton_

_A few weeks later, answering questions in Parliament with the rest of my ministerial team, I was the first up to speak, and only needed to read out the short prepared answer to the question on the order paper. But for seconds, I couldn't say anything. As I eventually sat down, I heard the late, great Gwyneth Dunwoody lean over and say to the person sitting next to her in a very loud voice: **"He's supposed to be the Secretary of State and he can't even get his words out."...** Because the stammer never goes away, and sometimes it can hit me very hard. One of those occasions was the Autumn Statement of 2012, the second biggest financial statement of the year, delivered by the Chancellor live on TV, with the Shadow Chancellor having to give an immediate reply. Right at the end of George Osborne's speech, I was thrown by a sleight of hand he had pulled on the numbers. I stood up, still trying to work out what he'd done, mixed my words, and had to begin again. I suddenly had a really bad block, and there was a gale of noise and mockery from the Tories, with David Cameron leading the laughter. I gradually pulled things round, but the media verdict was that it had been a total disaster, and my own side were clearly demoralised._

_The next morning I was on the Today programme, and Sarah Montague started the interview by repeating the Tory line that my halting response showed I lacked confidence in Labour's economic arguments. At the end, she went back to it, challenging me to accept that I had let George Osborne off the hook, and then asking **"And you did your job well enough yesterday?"** And live on the radio, I had a choice to make. I could have blustered it away, but I thought **"I'm just going to tell the truth."** So I said to Sarah " **Everybody knows that I have a stammer and sometimes my stammer gets the best of me in the first minute or two when I speak, especially when I have the Prime Minister, the Chancellor, and 300 Conservative MPs yelling at me at the tops of their voices. But frankly that is just who I am, and I don't mind that...and I don't apologise for one second. I'll keep making the arguments."**_

_I came out of the Today interview, my phone exploding with messages saying " **That was brilliant."** But then as tears welled up, I sat disconsolate in a room on my own for ten minutes, thinking: **"Why have I done this? Why make myself so exposed?"** But I had to pull myself together and go and explain the situation again live on BBC Breakfast. It was another watershed for me. It was the first time in which something had really gone so publicly wrong, and I'd chosen to explain that my stammer was part of the reason. Plus, I had to accept that, for all the progress I'd made, I would never be free of the problem, and my opponents would exploit it whenever they could. The following year in the Autumn Statement, the Tories had worked out that if they laughed, screamed and yelled incredibly loudly, they could try to put me off my stride and force me to block. I tried to be strong and robust in response, but it just came over as me shouting.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_Another Scot, Ayesha Hazarika-a talented former stand-up comedian who worked for Harriet Harman-played the leader of the Green Party in England and Wales, Natalie Bennett. I was told by one of the inner circle that if the real leader of the Green Party had been as sharp and effective as Hazarika in her role play, Ed Miliband would have struggled in the real debate. -Five Million Conversations: How Labour Lost An Election And Rediscovered Its' Roots, Iain Watson_

_David Axelrod put in an appearance in the closing stages of the campaign, and genuinely impressed people with his advice. **"The thing you have to understand, Ed"** he'd told his client, " **is that the key to politics is authenticity. So when the Tories tell people something they don't want to hear, like a new round of cuts, people don't like them, but they respect them. You should bear that in mind."** And Ed Miliband had nodded, and then forgotten all about it. Axelrod also took the time to inscribe a book to Ayesha Hazarika which read **"If Nicola Sturgeon is half as good at debating Ed as you are, we're in trouble."** **-** One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Holiday started with Fiona complaining that she was like a single parent, that three small kids was much harder than my job. We were hanging around on the Sunday when Neil and Glenys (Kinnock) called and asked if they could come to stay for a bit. They were there the next evening, entering a bad atmosphere created by the fact Fiona and I had barely spoken on the way down, and rowed most of the time when we did. And I imagined N and G would be pretty offside too. I could sense that Neil was gearing up for one...Anything I said about anyone failed to meet with his approval. I'd heard whispers he was a bit disaffected with TB and the whole show, but it came bubbling out all over the place, boiling over on the second evening. All day there was a drip, drip of things-a joke or three about the Oratory, sideswipes about our policy on Europe- **"we don't have one"-** endlessly on about JP not being up to it...I could tell he was building up for a big old-fashioned NK rage..._

_It was while Fiona was putting Grace to bed that the next move up the gears came. Neil had done some vegetable kebabs on the barbecue and we were arguing about a French word and **I said I wonder if there's a dictionary in the house,** at which point he got up, his chair falling over, then he sprinted into the house saying of course there'd be a fucking dictionary, and Glenys and I looking at each other and just shaking our heads and shrugging. He came back with his cheek muscles flexing like they do when he's close to totally losing it. We were nearing the full explosion, as first he tried to keep his voice under control, but failed every six or seven words; the hand movements getting wilder and wilder, then the heavy sarcasm **-"Oh Margaret Thatcher, not too bad you know, not such a bad person, quite a radical, and of course you had to admire her determination and her leadership-that's what the fucking leader says."** " **Now now"** I said, trying to calm things, but he was in that phase where anything you said just became a spur to further verbal violence. **"Don't "now now" me. I'll fucking tell him too-radical my arse. That woman fucking killed people." ..**..While he simmered elsewhere, Glenys said in more measured terms the problem was there were parts of the party that felt alienated by TB and the New bit of New Labour. The message was that everything that went before TB was hopeless...I said that was absurd- **are you saying we shouldn't try to win back seats we had lost in places like Essex? We should never have lost contact with those people.** By now Neil was back and said it was of course impossible for TB to address education policy now because he had chosen to send his own son to the SS Waffen Academy. I said his remark would be funny if it wasn't so ridiculously over the top-"Monday 31st July 1995"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_I said his remark would be funny if it wasn't so ridiculously over the top, but I'm afraid his humour had gone now. I said **why don't you stop fucking about with the sarcasm and the jibes and say what you're actually thinking-what is the main complaint?** Glenys could see it was in danger of boiling over and said she didn't want a big row, but I said **no, I want to know what he's saying, because my job is to defend Tony and I want to know what the problem is, he should spit it out.** Eventually he spat it out-" **He's sold out before he's even got there." "Sold out on what?" "Everything."** His face was inching ever closer to mine and at one point he picked up a kettle filled with newly boiled water which I feared was heading my way. " **What about a few specifics?" I** said. **"Tax, health, education, unions, full employment, race, immigration, everything, he's totally sold out. And for what? What are we FOR? It won't matter if we win, the bankers and the stockbrokers have got us already, by the fucking balls, laughing their heads off. And all that before you go and take your thirty pieces of silver." "What's that supposed to mean?"** By now his face was a wretched picture of hatred and rage. The word purple does not do it justice. It was on fire. And he spat it out-" **Murdoch." Oh for Christ's sake, is that what this is all about, because we went to see Rupert fucking Murdoch? "You imagine what it's like having your head stuck inside a fucking light bulb"** he raged at me, " **then you tell me how I'm supposed to feel when I see you set off halfway round the world to grease him up." "We gave him absolutely nothing"** I said. **"You will. And he'll take it. You'll get his support and then you'll get the support of a few racist bastards, and then you'll lose it again the minute you're in trouble."** I pointed out again that if we were going to win, we had to get new support, and he went all patronising and sarcastic again **"Oh, I never knew that. I didn't know you had to get new support. I wish I'd thought of that."** I said **we can have a serious conversation if he wants but he shouldn't bother patronising me.** More rage. " **Don't you patronise me"** he said. I said re: Murdoch, what was the difference, other than in scale, between me working for a Murdoch paper, as I did, and going to his conference. **"The difference is you've got courage and bottle and you'd tell these fuckers what you think. Tony lacks the moral fibre to do that."** I said that was crap. Glenys said she understood why we went but I had to realise how much it hurt Neil, who felt that Murdoch was actually evil.-"Monday 31st July 1995"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_When we were speaking again, a couple of days later, I said if he attacked Tony, I would defend him because that was my job, and not only did I support the New Labour strategy, in large part I devised it because we have to win new support and that is the key to it, change, compromise with the electorate, call it what you want. I said I believed in what we were doing, and one of the greatest difficulties I felt was that people closest to me, including him but most important Fiona, who had basically taken his side in the row, didn't actually support what we were doing at all. I said **at least you always had Glenys on side when you were doing the tough stuff. "There was a lot she didn't believe in too"** he said. There was a chance our friendship would not recover from the venom. The row had taken place at the exact same place where a year ago he had tried to talk me out of working for Tony, which added to the uncomfortable dynamic at work...After a while the rage subsided and we could have a civilised conversation again, but something had changed. And I was deeply annoyed at the way Fiona had sided against me pretty much through the whole argument. I hardly slept the night of the big row-which was hardly a great way to spend a holiday. The next day the whole thing kicked off again. I said to Fiona that even out of basic solidarity she could have sided with me when I was being assaulted like that, not just verbally but with a bloody kettle thrown in my face. She flew straight off the handle, said I'd totally changed, was completely obsessive, intolerant of any other point of view, and she wasn't allowed to say what she thought about anything. I didn't allow any rational argument; everything had to be subsumed to the idea of winning, and it was not a life. I said I'd like to know if she'd be happier if I developed a strategy for losing. This set the scene for another awful day, the only enjoyable parts of which were when I disappeared with the kids. Later we admitted we were just getting on each other's nerves and it was hopeless. She said she was fed up saying the same things, and me taking no notice. I said I was fed up hearing the same things. She said she understood why Cherie (Blair) was so fed up. There was me, TB, Anji (Hunter) and the office inside a bubble and nobody was allowed in. I was on a giant ego trip being lauded to the skies for being brilliant and she was just an appendage. It was really grim..Neil and I were barely speaking other lobbing in a few sarcastic jibes, e.g. when I said I liked Keating and he'd go off on that, and I'd say **at least he wins** , and off we'd go again.-"Monday 31st July 1995"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power, 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Home, another heart-to-heart, Fiona feeling that me leaving would lead to real change, and it hasn't. I was back for the (2005 election), which was fine, but now back for the transition, and she could see what was happening with GB, that he was trying to make me feel indispensable, and that he would play on the guilt just like TB did. She said she felt she should get a job independent of me, have her own thing to do, get away from this dark cloud. She thought I was being too hard on her about the Compass event. PG thought I was being too soft...It was a nice enough evening but after he left I realised Fiona was really angry that Philip (Gould) had said he intended to " **punish her"** for her Compass event. **"You lot are pathetic"** she said and that was that...Fiona very frosty and I wrote one of my angry emails but decided not to send. I was heading up to see Mum, and when we spoke by phone later, it just made it worse. It was becoming a dialogue of the deaf. She felt I refused to see things from her perspective. I felt the same that she couldn't see things from mine, and we went round in circles. I spoke to Grace and she said " **Mum seems very sad."** That brought it home I had to do more to try and sort this.-"Monday 16th January 2006-Tuesday 17th January 2006"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_Fiona was very nice when I woke up, apologised for overreacting yesterday, and we went for a walk with the dog. We went over the same old ground, and I could feel myself losing it, it was tipping point time. We were up in the little woody area near Kenwood House, she was saying we didn't seem able to meet each other's expectations any more, everything was such hard work, and I said, **I've tried and I've tried and what more can I do,** and I felt a rage rising that was almost overwhelming, I knew I was lurching out of control and I tried to walk away, but I knew she would take that badly, so I stayed and then I started punching myself in the face, four times, really hard, and I could see she went almost white, and I said **this is driving me fucking crazy, and it has to stop, one way or the other.** I said **you've asked me to leave (working for Labour), and I had left.** **"And now you are virtually back and this is what it is doing to you. It is making you ill"** she said. **"I am not ill"** I said, but I knew I was. This was fucking crazy stuff. I could feel my left eye swelling up. I leaned on a tree, I felt like crying but I held it back. I took a few deep breaths, I said **listen, I have tried everything, I am seeing someone, I am on medication, I am trying really hard. "OK"** she said, " **but TB only has to call and you're off in there to help." That is because he needs help and he is running out of people who can give it to him. "Why always you?"** she said. Because that is the way it is, because I can. **"But you hate it?" No, not always, what I hate are all the conflicting pressures. "It is making you ill again. You have to see that. And that is affecting all of us."** My face was hurting now, I had a headache, I was worried people had seen and heard what had gone on. We just about managed to stay civil on the walk back home but fuck this was grim, and tomorrow was her big event in Parliament, and I was expected to go along and feel happy at a load of them basically slagging off the government, her and Neil (Kinnock) included. I went upstairs to do some work, but I felt totally exhausted now. I sent her a message saying sorry for losing it, let's hope that was the high watermark of this particular madness and **"We'll work it out."** -"Wednesday 18th January 2006"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_Fiona was doing a fair bit of media in advance of her event tonight. It was not going to be easy, because I didn't agree with some of the things she was saying, and I was bound to get drawn into it, and the media were enjoying that part of it, and it was getting a big build-up. I went to see David S and went through yesterday's flip-out. He said it sounded like we had managed to get things on to a calm level, but the underlying issues were all there, and so a storm just erupted, and then it was calm again. I said **I guess so.** He asked me what I had been thinking about when I was hitting myself, and I said I didn't know, I was out of control. **Was I trying to hurt myself, really hurt myself? Yes. So it was self-harm? I guess so. Did you have any suicidal thoughts, then or later? I don't think so. I just felt in a total rage.** He felt that F and I had a very intense relationship and it was almost like I was an appendage of her and she of me, so fear of loss is huge, like loss of limb, or loss of life. I said I felt like my head was in a vice, I was being pressurised from different angles by different people for different reasons. He said I needed to try and understand why I allowed those pressures to build to such a state. **Did I feel close to a breakdown? No, it was nothing like when I had a breakdown, though I could easily have done something really stupid. Did you feel violent towards Fiona? No, not at all. I felt angry, and I felt she was pushing the buttons she knew made me angry and pressured, but I could never hit her, I knew that, and also when I was hitting myself, and I saw her face, I realised the fear on there was as much for me as for herself....He said just support her at her event tonight. Don't worry about what anyone else thinks, apart from her. Don't worry what the media says. Don't worry if people think it is odd or not odd that you are there. Just be there for her, that is all you need to think about. OK? OK.-"** Thursday 19th January 2006"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_**My office** _

_**"Have you heard it?"** _

_**"She's done it again!"** _

_The newsroom huddles around a PC to hear the latest car-crash interview with the leader of the Greens. Natalie Bennett proves completely incapable of explaining how much her policy to build 500,000 new homes will cost or where the money will come from. She sounds close to tears as she realizes how hopeless her performance is. Only a couple of weeks ago she was shown to know less about her own party's policies than Andrew Neil. He brilliantly revealed that the Greens were just £270 billion-that's almost treble the budget of the NHS-short of the money required to pay for their promise of a national citizen's income and had a policy of making it legal for people to join ISIS or Al-Qaeda. In her defence Bennett admits to giving an **"excruciating"** radio interview, which she blames on a new concept that looks certain to catch on: a **"mind blank"** or a **"brain fade."**_

_You know what? I think many will sympathize with her. Few people have any expectation that the Greens will ever get a chance to implement any of their policies and therefore it will make very little difference to how many votes they get.-"Tuesday 24th February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Needless to say, eventually the discussion turned to the real bane of his life, GB's and Peter's inability to get on. Peter played mock hurt that we were lumping the two of them together but I said they were as bad as each other and frankly I cannot remember a time when all of them were working more or less in unison. Peter said he was NOT as bad as GB but he had to respond when GB was so intent on destroying him...Fiona said **"You have to be tough on Gordon and tough on the causes of Gordon."** Peter laughed and said **"I'm afraid I am one of the causes of Gordon."** TB insisted that he worked like hell to make the partnership work, but GB wouldn't work with him properly. He said it was like dealing with a girlfriend who every time you looked at another woman thought you were having an affair with them...Peter got very upset when I said I thought he and GB were as bad as each other. He denied it, said he had been driven to behave like this because GB was so vile to him...-"Monday 26th February 1996-Thursday 4th April 1996"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Peter and I sighed volubly, given neither of us had been keen in the first place, but we had actually tried hard to make it happen. Peter got terribly defensive and very hoity-toity and I could sense he was losing it. He said **Gordon, this was entirely your idea, we have all been trying to make it work without proper direction from your or your office, and now you are rowing back.** They started talking very loudly at each other, just a few decibels short of shouting. TB, who for once was sitting in the chair by the TV, rather than at his desk or in his usual place on the sofa, said **for heaven's sake keep this under control.** Peter then stood up, said **no, I won't, I'm not taking any of this crap any longer,** and he stormed out, slamming the door. TB just shook his head, while GB stared at his papers and then started scribbling. Then the meeting resumed as if nothing had happened. I said, looking at Charlie Whelan, that I didn't think it would be helpful if that exchange was in any way communicated to the public. Peter came back later to collect his coat and TB said " **You cannot talk to Gordon like that in a room full of people"** and Peter said in that case he was happy to quit doing the job TB had given him. " **I have had enough. I am not going to put up with it any longer, being undermined by GB and getting no support from here."** He picked up his jacket, walked out again and slammed the door even louder than before. I looked at TB and he looked at me, and we both stood there shaking heads. TB sat down and said **"What am I supposed to do with these fucking people? It is impossible."** It was so absurd that we ended up laughing, probably because we couldn't think what else to do.-"Thursday 9th May 1996"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_As Mandelson famously suggested in an interview with me at the time, Blair was the one who would **"play best at the box office, who will not simply appeal to the traditional supporters and customers of the Labour Party, but who will bring in those extra, additional voters that we need to win convincingly."**_

_That was seen as rank treachery by Brown, to whom Mandelson had originally been closer than he was to Blair. This rupture generated a hatred between Brown and Mandelson which was the more intense because it had been preceded by love. From it flowed fourteen years of venomous feuding. One witness who heard Mandelson's end of a hysterical telephone conversation with Brown in 1994 heard him screaming: **"I love you, but I'll break you! If you do that, I can destroy you!"** Michael Wills, who was one of the few people who managed to be a friend of Brown while remaining on reasonable terms with Mandelson, reckoned they were **"like scorpions in a bottle; only one of them will come out alive."** **-** The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_My phone shows a text. It's Samantha's team. She is planning to join David outside (for his resignation). Lino, her hairdresser, has been summoned. I go upstairs to check she is in one piece. Samantha is valiantly trying to keep it together. Lino wields his brush as a soldier sharpens his sword for the final battle, all the while sniffling into the hairdryer. I give her a hug. **"Go out there, do Dave proud, as you always do"** I say. _

_Downstairs, Liz is issuing instructions-there's not question of us standing outside No. 11 for the statement, as is customary for arrivals and departures of prime ministers. This is not David's farewell. Instead, the team gather in our office, along with politicals from Nos. 10 and 11 and the private office. And Lino. We watch David stride out of the door, live on television. **"I am very proud and very honoured to have been Prime Minister of this country for six years...I have also always believed that we have to confront big decisions-not duck them..the British people have made a very clear decision to take a different path, and as such I think the country requires fresh leadership to take it in this direction."**_

_Now that I hear his words and see his face struggling with emotion-standing down from the job he always wanted, fought so hard to get for his party, was the honour of his life to do-the tears start trickling down my cheek. Minutes later he walks back inside to rapturous applause. He thanks us for being on this incredible journey with him-voice breaking towards the end-then walks into his office and shuts the door behind him._

_**"What happens now?"** someone asks._

_**"We go for coffee"** I say, leading our stunned political team out the back gate, over the road, to the cafe by the lake in St James's Park, which I had discovered with my daughter. Together we sip our lattes and see in this morning which marks the beginning of the end of the Cameron era.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_For instance, consider this cycle of despair. We decided that allowing ITV (and BBC) cameras in to film Miliband and his family **"relaxing at home" d** uring the election was an opportunity to show viewers **"the real Ed."** But by this stage, we had almost lost sight of what that was, so neuralgic had we become about concealing his most left-wing instincts from voters or preventing him ever being seen eating sandwiches. Our media team sought to choreograph every moment of the visit down to the plastic toys his children would walk in carrying._

_It did not stop Sarah Vine, a Daily Mail columnist, using the film to attack the Miliband family for having such an austere kitchen it might have been modelled on Soviet-era flats. Another newspaper columnist (Jenni Russell), ever keen as she was to show off her connections, tweeted that she knew the Milibands had a **"lovely"** second kitchen and only used the one shown on TV for the preparation of **"tea and quick snacks."** Miliband, in a spasm of honesty, then admitted the second kitchen was just **"for the nanny." T** he verdict from the media-both old and new-was that we had cynically sought to portray Miliband as normal and the whole operation had backfired into an authenticity disaster. It was hard to disagree.-Ctrl Alt Delete: How Politics And The Media Crashed Our Democracy, Tom Baldwin_

* * *

_The only hiccup was a political furore that erupted around the Daily Mail's revelation that Tony and Cherie had decided to send their son Euan to the London Oratory, a grant-maintained Catholic state school, rather than to a comprehensive. Tony was edgy, and Alastair, and especially Fiona, were fearful of the political ramifications. They were also personally outraged. For them, comprehensives-even what Alastair himself would later call **"bog-standard comprehensives"** -were an ineradicable part of what it meant to be Labour. I happened to think it would all blow over. I also thought the Mail headline, though no doubt intended to injure, got it about right: **"Labour Leader Ignores Party Policy and Puts Family First."** I was confident that most people in Britain, certainly most parents, would understand this, however much Alastair and Fiona disapproved, and however openly they showed it.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandleson_

_Peter warned me about the story doing the rounds about TB's kids possibly going to the Oratory. TB was working out a line that he would only do what was best for the kids and that he was looking at lots of different schools. I warned Peter it would be difficult if he went ahead...I raised the Oratory and said it could become a running sore. He said the school the boys went to was a feeder school. I stressed again that his strength was an ability to connect, but a combination of some of the language he was using and a big thing about his choice of school would set him back...I had another go at dissuading him from sending the boys to the Oratory. I said that line in Major's speech about people doing the best for their own children was laying down a line of attack. What did he gain from going to the Oratory? **You get all the grief politically, Euan will get attention he won't want or need, and is it really that much better than the school down the road?**...I alerted Derry (Irvine) to the (Oratory) school problem. He said, again, that you had to be careful about crossing the line on what were in the end personal decisions. I said sure, but where there are political implications, it was as well to be open about them...I used it again to raise my view that he was leading with his chin in sending Euan to the Oratory. I couldn't see the point of generating all the fuss it would cause. He said they'd decided it was the right school for Euan and that was that. I felt it would give him a political problem, and put Euan in the spotlight in a way I thought they wanted to avoid. The press would say it made the kids fair game. He was adamant that grant-maintained or not, it was the right school for him, and he was going, and he felt the public would understand he wanted the best for his kids. **"I am not going to sacrifice my kids' education for political correctness. It is not as if it is a private school, for heaven's sake. It is a state comprehensive." Up to a point,** I said. I asked him to imagine the (Michael) Heseltine speech on the Labour leader who expected ordinary kids to go to the local sink school but shipped his own kids across London to a GM school the likes of which his party opposed. He said Tories sent their kids to private schools. I said **they believe in private education, we don't.** I asked if the local schools were really that bad, and he said all he knew was the Oratory was the best school for Euan. I said **imagine the boost to the morale of the local school if you did send your kids there.** He said that was the first persuasive argument I had made, but he still was not budging. Their minds were made up...-"Monday 20th June 1994-Tuesday 21st June 1994-Saturday 15th October 1994-Monday 31st October 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Then we set off for Dudley. Walking across the concourse at Euston, got a message to call Hilary (Coffman.) The Mail had been on about Euan going to the Oratory. They had it as a fact and wanted our comment. We put together a short statement on the train and got it to David Hughes at the Mail via Hilary. Then heard it was the splash, which seemed to surprise TB, for all the discussion we'd had. Got to Dudley, fish and chips in the car, then the bleeps started coming through re the Oratory. I called Cherie (Blair) to warn her and said it was important the kids didn't get too caught up in it. **"I didn't know you cared about these things"** she said, not without sarcasm. I said **you'd be surprised.** I said it was always bound to come out, it did not surprise me it was the Mail, they and the Tories would play it for all it was worth, and I'm simply alerting you....Up just after 6, Oratory story going big. Agreed with Breakfast News they could do one question on it but otherwise we'd stick to what was discussed yesterday. I went in to see TB, who was standing stark naked reading the Mail. He said they hadn't carried our side of the story. There's a surprise. **No, come on,** he said. **I know what you think but it's a Catholic comprehensive school and Euan's primary school is a feeder school.** I said **they're not interested in facts. They're interested in inflicting political and personal damage and this is the first thing they've got.** He said his real concern was the effect on Euan but he was also asking what the effect on the public would be. I said it would be a lot worse in the party. Lots of people would support the idea you put your kids before politics, but if the Tories can make the hypocrite charge stick, and the party helps them just by keeping it a running sore, it could be bad. It was also the case that the press were bored with kicking Major and praising you and this would let them get stuck into you a bit more. The Tories were going mainly on the fact it was a GM school. If I was them, I'd go more on Mr Community shipping his kids across London because the Labour community schools weren't good enough for them. He and I had been over the same argument so many times but now it was here and we were having to deal with it so we just had the arguments again. I tried my best to help, got a script done to make the best of the facts, and suggest he urge the Tories not to turn his children into a political football. He worked out what he was going to say on the school, said it, nothing more, nothing less, and moved on. **-** "Wednesday 30th November 1994-Thursday 1st December 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Only one reporter tried to doorstep him on the school, but we saw that off. As we left, he said: **What a formidable operation we've got.** I said: **Apart from you,** and he looked a bit hurt. **That was a joke,** I said. TB did Anne and Nick (daytime talk show) at Pebble Mill, during which Downing Street announced talks with Sinn Fein. Anne Diamond pushed him on the Oratory and he used a line that made the bulletins, and sent Fiona on the rampage, about not being prepared to do what was politically correct with his children. Tim called with (Conservative Education Secretary) Gillian Shepherd's statement on to it which took it on to a different level, and clearly Major will have given the go ahead for her to do it. We worked out the best way to deal with it, but it wasn't easy. On the way into the press gallery Jonathan Haslam (Major's press secretary) said: **"For once you've got the pads on."** I can't say I felt much like defending the whole thing. Jacques Arnold (Conservative MP) asked JM the question that let him off the leash and they were really going for it. It was a blessed relief afterwards when the press surrounded David (Hill) rather than me, because he'd been more on top of the detail. I went downstairs and found TB with Hilary, GB, Peter, Bruce (Grocott) and all pretty down. There had been a thought TB should put out a statement, which I thought was too defensive and better Blunkett do it. DB was up for being supportive. We had to cancel yet another meeting with PG (Philip Gould). He said the worry was if this became a defining moment. TB asked again what was the public reaction. I said **again, mixed. Some would support you. Others will say hypocrite.** The damage comes if the party really helps the Tories keep it going, and you have hypocrisy and division rolled into one, and it all gets to you more than the usual because the family is involved. Not that I told you so. DB did an excellent interview, but the news was awful. TB said the whole thing was ridiculously overblown, and we should be doing more to push back. This was difficult, because he knew I disapproved and he knew I wasn't very good at doing things if my heart wasn't in it. And we'd been arguing about it for weeks. He went potty when I said he should calm down. Bruce and I were pretty much in despair and feared a read-over into the Clause 4 situation. Pat (McFadden) felt it gave the party the sense he wasn't of them, his strength and his weakness. Fiona and Glenys (Kinnock) both livid. I was through the anger on it, now working out how best to contain it. I was amazed the Tories, for all their strong words, hadn't actually got on to the biggest point of vulnerability on it, a Labour leader shipping his kids out of a Labour area because he thought the schools weren't good enough.-"Thursday 1st December 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Papers grim. Peter called saying he hadn't realised this was coming now, but he thought we could turn it to our advantage. Nice try, but bollocks. The office was getting dozens of calls from party members really pissed off, some asking what they were meant to do with their local anti-GM campaigns. TB said **up to them.** Sue Jackson (head of support services in Blair's office) was virtually in tears. In truth, I told TB, the papers could have been worse, and he thought there would be a difference between the press and the public on this. I said it was the party that was the problem. They felt let down and confused by it. It was a big dent in the halo and the press would now feel they could pile in a lot harder. Plus the community message was blunted. I told him Fiona was barely speaking to me about it, let alone him. He called her and she was reasonably supportive but said she found it very hard to defend. Tim (Allan) was at the other end of the scale, saying TB should do a piece defending his decision as a parent in the Mail. I was worried that would just inflame the party further. TB said the problem was that I didn't think his decision was justified. True, but I said I was happy to make the best possible case. Peter M had persuaded him we should do a Mail piece, that we had to get his case out, so Peter, Tim and I drafted something. Cherie had phone and was angry that it was in the papers that she was keener on the Oratory than TB. We chatted for a while and after some polite talk, not really getting to the point, I sensed she was suggesting I had put that out. I said if she really believed that, she ought to have some evidence, and she ought to realise if she was that suspicious it would be quite difficult for me to carry on working for her husband. She said she thought I'd been giving TB too negative a picture of the school because I was personally opposed and it was actually none of my business. I said it was only my business in so far as Tony expected me to deal with the media and political flak and I felt it was my job to warn him the flak would be considerable, which indeed it was. She said TB was really upset at the coverage. I said I can't be blamed for that. She seemed to think I had some kind of magical powers over the press, that I could somehow control what they did report and what they didn't. She was angry the Sunday Times were doing a profile of her and I said did she want me to speak to them and she said not on her behalf. At one point she appeared to suggest I was personally hostile because she was a Catholic or a barrister. I said I had never heard such an absurd statement. I understood why she was angry and upset but this was ridiculous. We hung up on pretty bad terms. She called back ten minutes later to say sorry. I said I really did understand why this was difficult. She said she felt there was a hostility between us. I suggested the four of us went out and talked it all through. I reminded her that one of the reasons she'd been so keen for me to do the job was that she saw me as someone who would always tell him what I thought. She couldn't just turn because she didn't like what I was saying. She didn't want TB and Fiona involved at this stage. I told TB and he said she was upset but she did not mean to be hostile and she was probably feeling bad about it. **"It is difficult for Cherie and she doesn't have the same support I have."** I suspected she thought I was allowing my own views to colour my advice on this. Then we heard the Mail weren't running the piece, which probably meant they didn't think they could do much damage with it. Fiona was in a foul mood all night, as if it was me sending our kids there. This was turning into a fucking nightmare. I spend all day arguing one way telling him he's wrong, then I get home and I'm sort of trying to defend him. Tim told Anji that after hearing my conversation with Cherie that he wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of me. My big worry was that there would be a backlash in the party that would go into other issues like Clause 4, and that the press would now turn.-"Friday 2nd December 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Chat with Neil who said his real anger at the Oratory was the position it put Euan in. It also gave the press a way in to go at others about their kids' schools as a way of driving a wedge. In his job, you can't divorce the personal choice from the political any more. Tough but there it is, the reality of our times. I went to get the Sunday papers and they were grim. The Observer and the Indy were on exactly the points I'd been warning about, choice, community. If we were not careful, this would be a bridge to a " **what does he stand for?"** campaign...Chat to TB and both of us pretty glum. Told him (Roy) Hattersley's piece exactly as expected. **"Very helpful."** I said he was saying what a lot of our people would be thinking. He spoke to Fiona, who as ever was softer on him than she was on me for defending him. She said she could live with his personal choice so long as the policy focused on ensuring kids at the lower end got a decent chance, but if they changed policy to suit his decision, she'd probably leave the party.-"Saturday 3rd December 1994", The Alastair Campbll Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_I didn't think TB fully grasped the damage being caused by the Oratory. He said, **anyone would think I'd sent him to Eton.** I said we had to watch a kind of revenge crossover to Clause 4. Glenys had said it would drain goodwill. At least he could laugh about himself still. **"Not much chance of persuading the country if I can't persuade my press secretary and his missus."** I said I'd had to stop Fiona pinning the Indy On Sunday editorial to the front door for Neil and Glenys (Kinnock) to read on arrival. We were all going for a party at Helena Kennedy's, but Rory, Calum and I left to watch Chester-Burnley on Sky then went back and the whole place was arguing about the bloody Oratory, because the Kennedys were sending their son there too. I left them to it, went upstairs, and called JP, who was also getting flak. He said you did all you could but his mind was made up. **You warned there would be damage and there is.** He said he'd been wary about being too heavy on it because you've got to be careful pushing too hard on family/personal. Watched Spitting Image, which had a field day on the Oratory...TB was far more up than at the weekend. I'd noticed that he didn't need that much rest time to get rested. He said he'd recovered his equilibrium and we should never have lost it. We were far too flaky over the opt-out issue. On the Oratory, we should have been clearer, stronger and had a strategy ready to go. He said I had got very down and hangdog about it, and I was the linchpin of the operation and everyone weakened. Whatever my views, I had to be professional about these things. I couldn't really deny I'd allowed my views to get in the way of doing what he felt should be done. But I felt every new line of defence opened new lines of attack against him. Better maybe to shut up and get the policy right as it affects most schools.-"Sunday 4th December 1994-Monday 5th December 1994"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Home to put the kids to bed, then down to Fiona telling me Gerry Malone (Conservative MP, health minister) had been on TV saying Labour education policy was written by TB, Peter M and myself to suit the Sunday papers. She said it not as if he were a lying Tory politician shit trying to make a point, but as if he were the sole purveyor of truth on earth. So it provoked another great row. She said it was damaging my **"street cred"**_ _to defend TB on schools. I said nobody argued with him more than I did but in public it is my bloody job to defend him, whatever the damage to my alleged street cred. She said that one day there would be something that even I could not defend.-"Friday 6th January 1995", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Back at 1 Richmond Crescent (the Blair family home) life continued much as usual, except that now Daddy didn't take the kids to school in the morning. All three were still at school in Highbury, though this would be Euan's last year. The question was where next? Children from St Joan of Arc (the three eldest Blair childrens' primary school) went to four Catholic schools. The nearest was St Aloysius in Islington; then there was St Ignatius in Edmonton, some way to the north-this was the Jesuit school. Then there was Cardinal Vaughan in Notting Hill. Finally there was the London Oratory School in west London. Although all of them had reasonable journeys from Richmond Crescent, I was conscious that were we to move to Westminster, the only viable options were Cardinal Vaughan or the Oratory. Cardinal Vaughan had a very rigid catchment area and boys from outside it stood a slim chance of being accepted-only one or two went from St Joan of Arc every year-whereas the London Oratory catchment was thewhole of London and six or seven would usually be taken. Both schools had a comprehensive intake and were entirely state-funded, although by a grant from central government rather than via the local authority. They didn't select on ability, but they were both good Catholic schools and there was stiff competition to get in._

_Planning your children's education is always difficult; after factoring in all the Blair imponderables it became a nightmare. Wherever he went, Euan would start in the autumn of 1995, and if the Major government decided to follow the normal pattern, the election could be in May 1996. I had to be practical. If the unimaginable did happen, in '96 or '97, if we did find ourselves in Downing Street, then that would be upheaval enough for our kids. Continuity would be crucial, so changing schools at that stage was not an option. Also with Nicky only two years behind Euan, we didn't want them going to different schools. In the end we opted for the Oratory. The journey from Islington was straightforward. Direct to Earls Court on the Piccadilly Line, and then one stop on the District. From Downing Street, Westminster tube was just round the corner, then it was straight there on the District Line. At the school's open day I had bumped into Helena Kennedy, whose own son was about to start. Any qualms I might have had about it being grant-maintained were settled then and there. If the **"right-on"** Helena thought it was OK, then it was OK for me.-Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_When Tony told Alastair he went ballistic . It would be disastrous for Tony's reputation, he said. He had a duty to send his children to the local comprehensive. Alastair famously " **doesn't do"** religion, so he never understood why it mattered to me that my children received a Catholic education. And it does matter. Catholic schools continue to have religious assemblies and the children observe the feast days, things that no longer happen in non-religious schools. It wasn't only important to me, it was important to Tony. Although he wasn't a Catholic, he had been coming to Mass since the children were little. At St Joan of Arc, as in most Catholic churches up and down the country, the Sunday morning Mass was family Mass: a genuinely warm and friendly affair, if a little chaotic. It was a chance for the children and their parents to worship and socialise together. It was where I first met Felicity and all the other mums whose kids went to the school. In fact, Tony used to take communion on a regular basis, with them. He was a member of our church community. Few, if anyone, in the congregation knew he wasn't a Catholic. Euan and Nicky had by this time made their first Holy Communion. It would have been very odd for Euan to go to a non-Catholic school after being at a Catholic primary. I don't know if Alastair thought this was me flexing my muscles because of the disagreement over Carole (Caplin). Frankly, I think it unlikely. I might have been the official Catholic in our family, and Tony might have been dissuaded from brandishing his religious beliefs in public, but this was not politics, this was private and non-negotiable, and Tony told him so in no uncertain terms. Alastair gave him dire warnings, saying **"You will live to regret this"** , but the truth is, we never did. It was the right thing for our family._

_Of course the story leaked and, on 1 December 1994, it was front-page news in the Daily Mail, but Tony stuck to his guns. The London Oratory was not a fee-paying school. It was not selective. It was funded by the state. His children's education was not a political football. Later, Harriet Harman sent her second son to a selective grammar school, St Olave's and St Saviour's in Orpington, while her eldest son was a year ahead of Euan at the Oratory. Yet again, there was a furore. Tony gave her his full support. What he wanted was to bring a good standard of education to everyone, whatever their religion or lack of religion. As it was, the Oratory was a grant-maintained school, essentially the forerunner of what are now Academies. And that was another of his goals: to show people that you could be aspirational, yet at the same time care what happened to others. Above all, he wanted to jettison the idea that once people had done better in life, the Labour Party was no longer their natural home.-Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

* * *

"Did you get yours?" Nancy runs up to Lola, almost slipping on the steps as she does so.

"Whoa-" Lola catches her. "Like, careful, or the school will get sued-secondary school?"

"Yeah, your letter." Nancy sits companionably on the step next to Lola, who's eating a strawberry lace-the only chance she'll get, since you have to show the teacher whatever you've got for a snack at break and, now that they're on packed lunches, whatever they've brought for lunch. It has to be healthy, which makes Dad happy, though Flo's always disappointed by the lack of crisps. "I got mine."

"Me too." Lola passes her a strawberry lace, which Nancy sticks in her mouth, chewing quickly before the bell goes. "You first."

"Grey Coat." Nancy glances at her. "You."

Lola bites off the end of her strawberry lace, then puts an arm around Nancy's shoulders and squeezes. "Saaammmme."

Nancy feels her shoulders sink in relief. "Good" she says, thinking that at least now, on the first day she'll know someone there, even if they're in different classes.

She stuffs the rest of the strawberry lace in her mouth quickly as Mrs Doyle starts to ring the bell, and she and Lola grab their bags to run and get into line with the rest of Class Six. "What did your mum and dad say?" Lola asks, before they have to split up to arrange themselves in alphabetical order.

Nancy, slipping into her place in line, shrugs. "They're happy. What about yours'?"

"Yeah, Grey Coat was first choice- _ow-"_ Lola elbows Charlie in the ribs. _"I_ was there-"

Nancy, eyeing Lola's sharp elbows, can't help but think it might be a blessing her friend didn't get given her second choice.

* * *

Sam rings round all the usual people first-Mum, Emily, Sarah, Frances-to give them the news of where Nancy's going next, before she rings Allie and Venetia, both of whom will also have opened a letter this morning, though with considerably less apprehension-their children both already attending their hoped-for schools.

Sam's hunch was partly right; Allie informs her almost the second she answers her phone that Rosie, like Eliza, and indeed, Allie, before her, will go on to South Hampstead; but Venetia, who could have almost taken it as read that Xandie will stay on at Arnold House, is worried about her other two boys. She's more worried about Isaac, who, in Year 8, will be leaving at the end of the year, and it'll be a few days before his senior school placement is announced. What she's a mixture of thrilled and apprehensive about, however, is the announcement that Seth, who'd suddenly expressed a wish to go to boarding school two years ago, and despite numerous parental entreaties, has stuck firmly to it ever since, has got a place at Cothill, where he'll start in September. Sam can tell from her voice it'll be less than an hour before she starts thinking about the implications of her youngest going away from home, and the tears start.

There's a steady stream of messages throughout the day, pulling Sam away from her sewing machine over and over to check her phone, most of which are announcing the places that could have been predicted-Lorraine's daughter Gracie will be joining Rosie, Eliza, and her own elder sister, Sky-slightly more of an achievement, having started out, unlike Eliza and Rosie, at a local state primary-Camilla texts to let them know that Sasha's continued education, at The Hall, along with Perry and Rex, is assured. She's more worried about Cosmo, who, like Isaac, is down to leave prep school in July, and who's gone through the rigorous Common Entrance process for Eton.

"He'll be fine" Sam assures her. "And it won't matter to him if he doesn't get in. He'll go to one of the others, and he'll be absolutely fine."

Camilla sighs. "I know. It seems to matter much more to us than it does to them."

Sam thinks, not for the first time, that the children might have the better end of the stick.

David pops up at lunchtime after a visit to Accrington, for a bowl of soup and a sandwich, and to inform her of a few more placements. "Joanna rang Craig this morning" he tells her, dunking a piece of ciabatta into the vegetable soup. "Iona got Lady Margaret."

"Took Nancy's place, did she?"

"That's what I said to him." David winks, and takes another spoonful of soup. "And Jeremy let me know too-Peter's staying at Thomas's-"-Sam had expected this; the Thomas schools take children up to 13, and the Heywood children's elder brother had done the same-"-and Elizabeth got a place at Francis Holland."

"Not staying on until 13, then?"

"No." Dave shakes his head. "They considered it, but Francis Holland is the right fit for her, and they don't get too many at 13+, so it would be less of a disruption for her to start with everyone else." His phone vibrates, and he reaches for it, before glancing up. "Grant-the twins are going to the same place as Hadley-"

"Good-"

"Sarah been in touch?"

Sam nods, having read Sarah's text right before Dave walked through the door. "The Harmsworths got theirs' through-"

"For Iris?"

"Yeah-Wycombe Abbey."

David shrugs-Iris will be joining both her elder sisters. "Frances hated it there."

"I know." Sam takes a spoonful of her own soup. "Nance will be happy at Grey Coat, won't she?"

"Happier than she'd be boarding."

"I know, but-"

David moves round to give her a hug. "She chose the school. We only put Lady Margaret above it because we knew that was the only way we'd get in, and it was a long shot anyway. Nance'll be fine. And she's got Bea there, too."

"I know." Sam leans her head against his. "Are you sure they'll be OK tomorrow?"

David kisses her head. "If they're not, we just rescind permission for them to use it. It's up to us until the second it goes out. And we'll see the film beforehand."

They haven't talked about Ed, over the weekend. Sam knows Dave saw him on Saturday night, but then she knows he was in bed with her by early Sunday morning, stroking her hair when she woke up, having made her a cup of tea. But somehow, throughout Sunday, neither of them mentioned him, as though Dave spent the whole of the previous night next to her all along.

"Did you tell Ed?"

She knows from Dave's jump at his name that he's been thinking about it.

"Not yet" he says, carefully.

"But you want to?"

"Well." David shrugs. "I can see him on Wednesday. Tell him, then."

"It'll probably have been announced, by then."

David looks up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Well-are we going to announce it or wait for them to just-figure it out?"

David scratches his head. "Press'll get hold of it. Craig says we should just be non-committal about it if we're asked."

"Back to Ed." Sam doesn't miss Dave changing the subject these days. She stirs the soup slowly with one hand. "Are you going to see him?"

David bites his lip. "He's in Hove."

"That's an hour away."

"Or Hastings. I'm not sure."

"You could find out."

David's eyes fall to the table. Sam covers his hand with hers'. "I know you want to see him."

Dave looks up at her sharply. "I know you don't want me to."

Sam shakes her head. "It's not that I don't want you to. Or at least-I don't, but I do at the same time."

David's brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

Sam leans her head on her hand. "I'm still trying to work it out."

This time, when David gets up and hugs her, it's tighter.

"Does Justine know?" Sam asks on an instinct, her voice almost cracking on the last word.

David's still for a moment, Sam leaning back against his chest. Then, "He doesn't want to tell her."

Sam closes her eyes. "She deserves to know."

She can almost feel David's wince. "I think it's more complicated than-I think Ed almost can't let himself know, to be honest."

Sam leans her head back against his stomach, tilts her face up to his. "He's not the only one" she says, and glances down at their fingers, still intertwined.

* * *

David's already thinking this was a bad idea when the door opens and Ed comes in, looking frazzled.

David then realises exactly what it might look like sitting on the edge of a bed, and stands up. "Miliband."

Ed's eyes widen, but he makes sure the door's shut before he speaks. "Cameron, what are you doing here?"

David raises an eyebrow. "Given you told me The Dragonfly Hotel-"

"Becauthe you th-said you wanted to meet." Ed rakes a hand through his hair, looks away, then back. "What'th wrong?"

David shrugs. "Why here, anyway?" he says, trying to make his own words louder over the racing of his heart.

Ed's brow furrows. "Because I'm doing debate rehearsals."

"Ah." David's thinking fast, his pulse quickening. Getting the train here had seemed a good idea, at the time. Now that he's actually standing in front of Miliband, it's seeming less and less like one.

"I wanted to see you" he blurts out, and then immediately wants to cringe.

Ed blinks. "What? You-" His eyes widen. "What? Here? _Now?"_

David stares at him. "What? No, not-not _that_ , I just-"

God. He should have just said it _was_ that.

"I-ah-wanted to tell you something. Not over the phone."

Ed blinks. "All right?"

God, this was stupid. He should never have come here, it was stupid-

"Nancy got her secondary school place today."

Ed blinks again. "OK?"

"Grey Coat." David's aware he should shut up, that he's letting himself babble words into the silence between them, but he goes on. "She's thrilled. I mean, it was our second choice, but she's happy, and it was where she wanted to go-we only picked Lady Margaret first because-"

He trails off, wanting to kick himself.

"Um-" Miliband's examining him with his head on one side, like a confused racoon. "Did you have to tell me-right now?"

_No. But I-I needed to-_

"I just thought you'd want to know." David pulls himself together-it's not as though Miliband didn't do something pretty similar last week, and that was far more bloody dangerous. "If-that's fine. I can go-"

"No, it-" Miliband shakes his head. "It'th great. Of courthe it is. It's-good for her, you know, it'th-for Nanthy-" He blushes almost painfully at the lisp. "I jutht-you came to thee me-here?"

David clears his throat. "I know. I-it was stupid, sorry. I can go."

"No, it's-" Miliband looks away, a smile tugging briefly at his mouth. "It'th-nothing."

"What?" David can't help the nagging feeling in his chest that he's missing something.

"Nothing. Jutht-" Miliband glances up at him, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "Didn't think you'd be the needy th-sort."

David's gaze snaps back to his. "Oh, fuck off, Miliband."

Miliband's shoulders are shaking with laughter, dimples creasing into his cheeks. David fights to keep the grin from his own face. Miliband shakes his head, still giggling.

"It's not funny. Shut up." David's painfully aware that his own grin is significantly lessening the impact of his words.

Miliband, though, shoves a hand over his mouth, muffling his giggles. "Shhh-"

"What?"

"They might-" Miliband jerks a head at the door.

"What, your lot are outside?"

Miliband shakes his head. "No, no-just-I told them I was coming in here to read over notes firtht, if they hear-"

"They're not going to think you find my sense of humour deeply amusing?"

"Shut up." Miliband gives him a gentle shove, gasps of mirth breaking free. "Honethtly, you need to-"

"I know." It doesn't hurt as much as the words did before, somehow. Miliband's standing very close to him, his eyes seeming much bigger and darker. David swallows.

"What's that?" he manages, with a glance at a small crate-like object by the bed.

"Oh." Miliband colours slightly, kicking it aside with one foot. "It's a-to stand in for a lectern, you know, in rehearsals-"

"Make you look a little bit taller?"

"Aren't you the one bringing up th-size?"

David just laughs. Miliband looks away, clearly fighting his own grin, until the sound dies away, leaving an odd, almost comfortable silence in the room between them.

"I really am glad about Nanthy" Miliband says, more quietly now. "It'th good news."

David nods, heart seeming to do an odd little skip in his chest. "Thanks, Miliband."

Miliband's mouth twitches. They're really far too close. It would be best to step back a bit.

David doesn't step back.

"Um-well." David's planning to say something about getting back, about seeing him on Wednesday. "We could-um-we could-"

"Yeth." Miliband's eyes flicker briefly to the door, then to David's mouth. "We could-"

This is a bad idea.

"You've-thinthe you're here-"

David's hand touches Miliband's shoulder awkwardly. Miliband takes in a short, shaky breath.

"Five minuteth" he breathes, and then David tilts their mouths together and kisses him quickly, softly, and he's pulling back when Miliband's arms slide around his neck and he's kissing him again, mouths and tongues opening each other up.

* * *

Ed did mean it to only be five minutes.

They're sitting on the bed-Ed didn't mean for them to sit on the bed. In fact, he doesn't remember even thinking about it-just tugging Cameron's sleeve halfway through kissing him, leading him over to the nearest place they could both sit, and then Cameron's mouth on his again, tongue tracing Ed's.

They haven't gone for each other's necks this time, he notices vaguely, the thought seeming far away under the immediate warmth and heat of Cameron's mouth. They've just kissed each other's mouths. His hands have stayed, mostly, on Cameron's shoulders this time, apart from one that indulges itself every few moments, fingers wrapping into Cameron's hair. Neither of them even seem to be leading. Their legs are pressed against each other, Ed's heart beating hard, but at the same time, there's something easier about it. Even now, as they break apart, Cameron's face just nudges itself against his, their cheekbones pressing together in an odd kind of nuzzle before Ed tilts his chin up gently, guiding their mouths back together.

"Ed?" The hammer on the door makes Ed almost jump out of his skin, nearly sliding off the bed altogether. "Ed? You in there?"

Cameron's eyes, wide and blue, stare back at him from less than an inch away.

Ed's voice, when he finds it, just about manages to croak out normally. "Yeah." He stares at Cameron without looking away, raising a finger to his lips slowly. "Yeah. Jutht-I'll be down in a minute."

There's an impatient snort from Tom on the other side of the door. "Come on. Alastair'll be here in fifteen."

Oh God, that's all he needs.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut. "Down in a minute" he calls, willing Tom away from the door as if thoughts alone can do the trick. "I'm just-finishing up a call with the kids."

He feels himself wince at the excuse even as it leaves his mouth but, from the tut on the other side of the door, it does the trick. "See you in five, then."

All the same, Ed waits, him and Cameron staring at each other in silence, counting to ten, before Ed leaps up and crosses to the door, listening for the slightest sound of movement, before he turns around and sinks against the wood, knees almost collapsing with relief. "God." His gaze falls on Cameron, and he shakes his head. "You have to go."

"Right." Cameron's already tidied his hair back into place, refastened his tie.

"How did you even get in?" Ed knows they're wasting time, but he can't help asking.

David arches an eyebrow. "Aides just thought we were discussing TV debates. That it's a private thing, didn't want aides liaising with each other."

"Yeah, but how-"

David winks. "Quite adept at being sneaked in through back doorways, Miliband."

Ed blushes like an idiot at the words.

"It's probably the only time you see your th-staff" he mutters in return, only for Cameron to wink at him.

"I'll phone you." Cameron reaches out to him then, and they both freeze for a second, as his hand hovers oddly in the air. Eventually, it falls, giving a sort of pat to Ed's shoulder, before Cameron heads to the door, for all the world as though he's just going to walk through it, phone already out.

"Wait." Ed crosses to the door, and, glancing around the small room and despairing, gestures behind it. "Let me check."

Cameron glances around, amused, as he takes position. "Are you sleeping here tonight?"

"Yeah." Ed's more occupied in trying to get the door open the tiniest crack, for fear of anyone passing. "Debate rehearsals go on late."

"Impossible to get a lookalike?"

"You get enough flattery without piling it on yourself" Ed fires back, and then blushes crimson.

Cameron arches an eyebrow. "By flattery, do you mean from you?"

Ed chooses not to dignify this with a response. Instead, he draws in a breath, and, half-expecting to see Tom standing on the other side of the door, hand still raises, clicks it open.

There's no one in the corridor outside. Ed goes limp with relief.

"You're clear. You can-" He gestures. "I'll head out after you." He frowns, then glances into the corridor. "Wait, where are you-"

"Round the corner." Cameron smiles. "Plain clothes. Need for discretion."

"Right."

"Well."

Ed pulls the door to again. "You need to get going. Someone'll th-see-"

"I know. Just-"

Their hands hover at each other's arms awkwardly, before Ed gives Cameron something resembling a pat and Cameron him something more like a nervous squeeze.

"Bye."

Ed doesn't think he could bear to watch him go. Instead, he lets the door close behind him and sinks back against it, letting his eyes fall closed, and only then does it occur to him that they've already broken one of their rules.

They haven't made it a week. He wonders if that's some sort of record for Cameron.

It certainly is for him, and the thought just makes him groan, and tilt his head back against the door, carefully avoiding the sight of the very obvious indentations in the duvet.

* * *

"Well done, Natalie."

Ayesha looks up at Tom. "What?" Praise from Tom is so rare that that alone would cause her to pause for a moment.

Tom rolls his eyes. That's more like Tom. "Natalie. You did Bennett well."

"Oh. Thanks." Ayesha glances over at Ed, who's looking slightly despairing as Alastair, perhaps unintentionally, does something that could perhaps best be described as quiet bellowing. And Ayesha knows that's him trying to be nice.

"Ed did better today." Ayesha glances away from them, trying to sound positive. Not that she's just trying. Ed really did do better-he seemed to be a little more fired up, at least.

"Yeah. We need to smooth over some of the SNP stuff, though." Tom sniffs, knocks back the glass of wine from the bottle Rachel's just opened. "You up to doing Nicola next round?"

Ayesha's brow creases. "That's an image."

"Yeah, well, rather you than me." Tom glances at his phone as it vibrates. "Though with all the coalition speculation, people are going to be bringing it up sooner rather than later-what the _hell?"_

Ayesha stares at him. "What?"

Tom looks at her with a face like thunder and Ayesha grabs his arm, tilting her head to look at the screen.

* * *

"Hey." Nancy keeps her voice low when she spots Elwen in her bedroom doorway, aware that they're both up unusually early. When she glances at her window, she can see the pale blue light creeping across the ceiling of the early morning.

"Hi." Elwen comes up behind her to look over her shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Sewing." Nancy shows him. "Your costume's finished, basically."

"Awesome." Elwen takes a seat on the end of her bed. "Apart from the quiver."

"Yeah, well, we'll probably be able to find one or something." Nancy turns round from her sewing machine to look at her brother. "Did you see them?"

Elwen doesn't pretend not to know what she's talking about. "No. None of them are in the hallway or anything. I think they're with Dad and Uncle Craig in the kitchen."

Even though Nancy had gone to sleep knowing that the cameras would be in the flat, filming Dad before anyone else was even up, it's still a deeply weird feeling, knowing that someone's filming where they eat their breakfast right now. It makes her speak in a whisper, as though the camera crews might pick up what they're saying through the walls.

"Dad said he's nice" Elwen reminds her, plucking at his lightning bolt pyjamas. "The guy, I mean."

"Tom." Nancy remembers his name. "He works for ITV. Yeah."

Nancy knows they're not going to have to do anything out of the ordinary-all they're going to do is sit at the table and eat breakfast. But it's still weird.

"It's just weird, because we'll be talking like it's just us, but, like-" Elwen shrugs, looking away as he falls back on Nancy's bed.

"But like, there'll be people there, yeah, I know-"

"Isn't Flo having her hair done or something?"

"Yeah." Nancy nods. "Dad said that they wanted to, like, have a shot of just him with us, and Flo's like-people are less likely to recognize her in the street or something. Mum said only if she's OK with it, though."

Florence had seemed pretty OK with it the night before, though Nancy doubts she'll even notice too much. Dad does her hair for school all the time, so it's not like it's a massive deal. Plus, there was no way Nancy was going to risk the entire class seeing her have her hair combed by her dad on TV. Flo's four. It's OK for her.

"Aren't they filming-like-in Dean with Dad?" Elwen asks her suddenly.

"Yeah." Nancy's brow furrows as they sit cross-legged at the end of her bed facing each other. "I think they're doing that in the week, though? Like, when we're in school."

"Oh."

"Yeah, it's not going to be like-when they'll film us at the weekend or anything. This is going to be just Dad."

"And that's not showing our faces, right?"

"No, no." Nancy pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, glancing over at her school uniform laid out on the chair in the corner of her room. They don't usually have their hair brushed before breakfast, but there's no way Nancy's going on TV with her hair a mess, on top of everything else. Plus, she's pretty sure Mum and Gita would have had heart attacks first.

"Who's in the kitchen?" she asks El now, playing with her canopy.

"I couldn't hear." Elwen lies back on her bed. "I mean, Dad's in there, and Mum. And I think Uncle Craig and, like-Auntie Gabby or somebody. But there were some more too."

Nancy thinks that eating breakfast like usual might be more difficult when the kitchen's essentially a TV studio.

"Are they going to be in there while we're eating?" Elwen turns to glance at her as Nancy lies back next to him.

"Dunno." Nancy tugs at her pyjamas. "They'd better have eaten, though. I'm not sharing the syrup."

* * *

"And it's every day?" Tom's sitting across the table from him, as though there isn't a camera several inches away. "Even on the weekends?"

"Every day." David, automatically, lets his arm lie over the papers, though they've already been reassured about twenty-five times that any document text will be pixelated. "I find that the-this stuff builds up if you have a day when you don't do it-"

They're both studiously acting as though Craig and Gabby aren't standing on the other side of the kitchen, peering at them through the gap in the wall.

Sam had had to stop Craig examining the kitchen cupboards the night before. "Craig, no one's going to open the cupboards."

Craig had pursed his lips, examining them. "Doesn't look like anything-"

"Isn't good enough." David had tried not to roll his eyes, as Lynton's voice had barked out of the laptop he was holding. "You don't know where the hell the camera crews are going to go."

"For God's sake." Sam had given David a roll of the eyes over the laptop. "We're going to be making them a cup of tea, not showing them round the whole bloody flat."

"You could scatter a few of the kids' toys around" says Lynton, from the screen. "Make it look lived in-"

"I am not pimping my childrens' _toys_ out to the general public."

Liz, who had just walked into the kitchen behind them, stopped, frowned, and then slowly walked herself back out again.

"For Gods' sake." David, tilting his head over the top of the laptop, could just about see Lynton's eye-roll. "Where's Sam?"

"Here-"

"There-"

"Take me to her."

"I'm not your personal-laptop- _transport-"_ David had wheeled the laptop round, only to see Sam walking back towards the yellow couch.

"Where is she?"

"Tell him I'm tidying up the toys" Sam had called back, shoving a cushion back into place. "So they're not beamed out to the entire fucking _nation_ as a beacon of solidarity."

Craig had squinted at the screen. "Did you get that?"

"My arms are dropping off, by the way" David had reminded him calmly. "Just so everyone's aware-"

"Take me to the couch."

"I'll take you right out of this room" Gabby had muttered.

"What was that?"

"Here." David had turned back to the kitchen, shifting the laptop against his chest. "I've got something for you to look at."

"What?"

David had placed the laptop on the counter, facing the wall, and walked away.

Now, glancing at Tom sitting across from him, David feels his shoulders relax very slightly. They already know the kids' faces aren't going to be shown-Craig had hammered that into Lynton last night, after the barking from the laptop got too insistent for them to ignore any longer and Craig had rescued him from the counter. Even Flo's face isn't going to be shown, even if she does sit on his lap for her hair to be done. And as long as it's only a few minutes of filming that gets used, it shouldn't affect them too much.

"Only other thing will be the few spontaneous shots" Craig had told him, before leaving that night. "And even then, they'll all be shown to you beforehand."

"So, I find Saturday and Sunday, it might not be quarter to six, but it's _pretty_ early" he says to Tom now.

"Right." Tom gives him a grin. "Living above the shop, brings work home to you a bit more-"

"I find-I like living above the shop-" David adjusts his chair slightly. "Because I get to see my children."

"Mmm."

"God, I'm not going to bloody _work_ them into the conversation" he'd finally burst out, irate, the night before, as Lynton, having failed to learn the lesson from his exile, had suggested a sixth way of mentioning the kids. "They'll come up naturally. They're not bloody _dolls."_

Lynton hadn't broken his gaze, instead looking dead straight out from the laptop. "People want to hear you talk about your kids" he'd said, flatly. "They want to hear how much you love them, see glimpses of their little faces. If they see your kids, they want to hate you a bit less. And you said you're happy for them to be in this."

David had stared back at him. "Yeah" he'd said, his own voice hard. "And we'll do this our own way."

Lynton had shrugged. "Fine." But he'd held David's gaze, unblinking, and David had been the one to look away first.

"You can see, at the minute this is a work table, but in a minute-"

"Well, I was just gonna say-" Tom turns with a grin to the jar of toothbrushes that sit in the centre of the table-not actually put there for the cameras, as one of the producers had been surprised to learn when they'd first walked into the flat forty-five minutes before-just there for ease, more than anything.

"It's-it's going to be a breakfast table." David manages to laugh at this, without actually trying-the sight of Flo's little green toothbrush does it.

"Here, we have-err-Colgate-err-a hairbrush-the-a" Tom's grinning, adjusting the little toiletries container slightly.

"The usual rituals have to be gone through-"

"And this isn't here just for us!" Tom says, laughing, gently moving Nancy's hairbrush, which he's picked up, back into the box. He gives David a wink. "Don't worry, we won't use that bit."

David manages to laugh again. But this time, he has to try a little.

* * *

It's not quite a TV studio. It's still weirdly close.

Elwen nudges Nancy as they walk into the kitchen. "Bags I sit next to Dad."

"Actually" Mum says, before Nancy can respond to this. "I think Uncle Craig already has places they want you to sit."

Uncle Craig gives Nancy a wave as he steps over to them. "Hi, Nance."

Nancy immediately looks for Dad, as Flo goes running over to them, nearly tripping over the camera wire. "Daddy-"

"Hi, sweetheart-" Dad pulls Florence onto his lap. He's already sitting at the kitchen table, in one of his white button-down shirts with no tie. Florence cuddles into him happily.

Nancy glances at the black camera already positioned ominously at one end of the table. Dad follows her gaze. "It's OK, Nance, it's not on."

Reassured, Nancy follows Flo round the table, leans into Dad for a hug.

"We were thinking" Uncle Craig says, as Mum gives Elwen a squeeze around the shoulders. "What we were thinking is-we've looked at a few different angles and the camera guys think this'd be better to film from-you've got more of the light that way-"

"Right."

"And we were thinking if you went at that end, Sam, to-make you kind of-more the focus, for the interview later-"

"Yeah-and the-"

"We were thinking if we sort of move the chairs round a little-so they're more evenly spaced-"

"And we just need to get their mics on, so their voices aren't drowned out-since we won't be pointing towards their faces, they'll be a bit muffled-"

Nancy's looking from one to the other, still trying to juggle what's being said by who and what each thing means, when Mum's voice cuts in with a sudden edge to it. "Are the microphones really necessary?"

"Well, we'd just like them to be clear-"

"Can't you just use the boom mic?" Mum's hand squeezes Elwen's shoulder tightly. "It's less intrusive for them-"

The person-Dad's told her before they're called a runner-glances at Uncle Craig. "It's only in their clothes, it won't bother them-"

"It's OK." Dad's just looking at Mum, his voice softer. "It's all right. I promise." He looks at Nancy. "Only if you're comfortable with it, though, Nance-"

Nancy shrugs. "What is it?"

Dad gently peels back the collar of his shirt to show her. "See-it's just taped in here-"

Nancy can see a small black microphone. Flo leans in and slaps her hand over it. There's a buzz of static and a muffled curse from the corner. Nancy glances over to see a runner with his hands over his ears casting an aggrieved look in their direction.

"It's so that your voice is clearer-" Dad lets his shirt fall back, sparing the runner's hearing and giving her a squeeze round the waist. "It's only if you want to."

Nancy shrugs. "Sure." It's not like she's wearing the thing for longer than it takes to eat breakfast, anyway. She glances at El, who says "It's not taped to your skin, right?"

"Dad _literally_ just showed you." Nancy looks at Mum, who's still watching her, eyes narrowed. "It's OK, Mum, honest. I don't mind."

Uncle Craig claps his hands together. "Great. Can you just-"

A runner who's moved stealthily round the table almost before Nancy's noticed gives her a tap on the shoulder. "Here we go-"

She moves Nancy round the table with the ease of someone who's done this many times before and carefully lifts up her school sweatshirt. "Now, what I'm going to do is-is this a shirt underneath?"

"Yeah, it's a polo-we have to wear them-"

"Good, good-" The runner glances at Elwen, so that he can see too. "Now, see, what I'm going to do-is just tape it to the little flap at the top of Nancy's polo shirt here-" Her cool fingers brush Nancy's skin slightly as she tapes another small black microphone into place. "Now-you should only just be able to feel that-"

Nancy considers. "Only slightly."

"Good. Now-" The runner lets Nancy's sweatshirt fall down over her polo top again. "See? You can't knock it loose this way and it's covered up. Then-" She leans down to Nancy's school skirt, and attaches it to the waistband deftly without touching her skin. "Because you're only going to be sitting down, we don't need to worry about anyone seeing it. And look-" She pats Nancy's hip carefully. "It runs down under your sweatshirt. And that's all there is to it, really."

Nancy glances at Mum. "Yeah. It's fine-"

Mum still doesn't look too happy but Elwen looks a little more relaxed as he walks forward for his own turn.

"Now-" Uncle Craig turns back to Dad. "Back to the whole-chair thing-"

A few chair drags later and the runner-her name is Chloe, Nancy finds out when she asks-having mic-ed up Flo carefully, while she sits on Dad's lap, Uncle Craig taps Nancy on the shoulder. "We were thinking you could sit next to your dad, Nance, if that's all right with you-"

Nancy sticks her tongue out at Elwen triumphantly and clamps a hand on the back of the chair before Uncle Craig can change his mind.

"And El, we thought you'd go here-" Uncle Craig tugs out a chair opposite them, so that they're seated in a sort of semi-circle, slightly further away from each other than they usually are.

Elwen, still looking slightly put out, moves the chair slightly. "Here-"

"Yeah, that's grand." Uncle Craig taps his shoulder. "And Flo-we could have her in the middle at this end-"

Flo is too busy being cuddled to mind where she sits.

Nancy takes her seat slowly, next to Dad. She and Elwen are both in their school uniforms, and Mum had come in to check her ponytail and Elwen's hair before they came into the kitchen. Usually, her hair's loose while she eats her breakfast, but this morning Mum actually retied it for her. She washed all their hair in the bath last night too, and dried them with the hairdryer, even though Nancy's learning to do it herself. Lino came in to do Mum's hair early this morning, and, once Nancy and Elwen were dressed, came into the bedroom to check theirs and run the blow dryer over the ends once more-though Flo, who's just in her school polo shirt and skirt and tights, had her morning treatment limited to just having her hair given a blast and combed, though with the way she's snuggling her head under Dad's chin, it won't be tidy for long.

"Is Flo going to need both of them?" Uncle Craig asks suddenly, jerking his chin at Flo's soft toys, several of which are now sitting on the table.

"Which, her-her rabbit or her-"

"I was thinking of the koala." Uncle Craig purses his lips. "It's just-it might be linked to Lynton."

Mum blinks at him. "It's a _toy."_

Nancy glances between them, as Elwen waves the koala across the table at Flo to get her attention.

"When are they going to start filming?" she asks Dad, glancing at the long black lens of the camera pointing at her. The cameraman, watching her, adjusts it carefully, so that it's pointing away from Nancy's face.

Dad squeezes her knee, then chucks her under the chin. "They'll tell us when they start, don't worry."

Nancy leans against him.

"Mind her hair" Uncle Craig says warningly, breaking off from his conversation with Mum to glance at them. "Lynton'll kill me if she turns up looking like she's been dragged through a hedge backwards."

Nancy sits up again reluctantly, only for Dad to take her hand between his instead. They're up half an hour earlier than usual, and the morning light is filtering through the windows behind her, less bright than they're used to at breakfast time. Flo's burbling to herself happily, which is when Auntie Gabby crouches down next to Nancy with a compact. "Can I just put a bit of powder on your face-"

Nancy glances at Mum-Mum and Dad don't let her wear make-up, except maybe a bit of lip gloss on really special occasions. But Mum, who's having her mic fitted beneath her jumper, nods, and says "It's just to make your skin look better-the camera lights can be quite bright-"

"Yes, they can be a bit glaring-" Gabby shows her the powder, which is almost the same colour as Nancy's skin. "It'll just stop you looking too pale or ill-look, your dad's got some on-"

Flo slaps her hands on Dad's cheeks in delight. "Daddy got _make-up-"_

Dad laughs, trying to move her hands away carefully. "Yeah, Dad's got-carefully, you'll smudge it all-" He glances at Elwen, who's looking more doubtful at the thought of this. "It's all right, El, it's not a girly-a girl's thing, it's just for the cameras-here, you can come and see what I've got on-"

Gabby's finger smooths the powder onto Nancy's cheeks carefully, putting dabs on her chin and forehead, then rubbing it in with a small brush. "There we go-"

"Everyone up or are we still getting people out of bed?" Nancy looks up at the man who's just walked in through the door, eyes roaming to Uncle Craig before any of them. She recognizes him after a couple of moments-she's seen him before on television, but he's smaller in real life, with a friendly grin.

"Hi-" Dad gets out of his seat, holding out his hand, letting Flo squirm down next to him, for Auntie Gabby to give her the same treatment with the powder. Nancy can tell they've met before, and then remembers that Tom's probably already been in the flat for hours.

"And these are-"

"Yeah, this is Elwen-" Mum pats his shoulder.

"Hi-" Elwen shakes Tom's hand quickly, and then sits down again, as Auntie Gabby walks round to him, dusting the powder lightly over his freckles.

"Nancy-"

Nancy gives him a smile. "Hi."

"Nice to meet you-"

"And Flo."

Tom bends down to take Flo's tiny hand, which is extended over her koala, big blue eyes fixed on him. "Hiya."

Flo looks at him doubtfully. "What'cha doing here?"

Tom laughs. Mum chucks Flo under the chin gently. "Flo."

"It's fine-"

"This is Tom-"

"Yeah, this is Tom." Dad gives Flo a kiss on the head. "Remember, we told you-"

Flo is kissing her rabbit's head.

"So, how old are we all?" Tom claps his hands together.

"Eleven" Nancy tells him, leans over to stroke Flo's rabbit.

"And you're nine?" Tom turns to Elwen.

"Nine."

"And Flo's-"

Flo wriggles on her chair, then holds out four fingers from behind her rabbit's head. _"Four."_

"Four." Tom leans on the back of a chair. "Sure you're not five?"

Flo nods confidently. "Four."

_"Sure_ you're not five?"

Flo giggles, as though the big camera looming behind her head doesn't exist at all.

* * *

Sam's still making the porridge when Dave puts his hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Sam glances, automatically, at the kids several feet away. They're still sitting around the table, Tom having taken a seat between Elwen and Flo, who's now introducing her stuffed animals to him one by one. "Yeah. It's just-" She glances at the camera positioned behind her children's heads. "Weird."

Gabby wanders in after them. "Can I just check your-yeah, your make-up's good." Sam doesn't usually wear make-up for breakfast, but this morning, she's already had it checked by Gabby twice, after spending about an hour last night choosing which jumper to wear. ("It can't look over the top. Down to earth. Something anyone might wear.")

"Hair's beautiful." Lino blows her a kiss from the corner of the kitchen, having stuck around for moral support and to check each of the kids' hair.

"It should be." She sat in a chair for half an hour from 6:30, with Lino carefully arranging her hair, so she'd be disappointed if it wasn't.

"You don't have to talk about anything in particular" Craig reminds them, in an undertone from the doorway into the rest of the kitchen. "Just, as long as you include the kids. And you can ask for the filming to stop at any time."

Sam doesn't think she'll ever get used to being filmed, but the last time the kids were filmed was years ago. They went over what to wear then, but that was different. Then, she'd been going out to work afterwards, and her main focus had been Ivan. How to prop him up on Dave's lap at the table, how to support his head as she slid on his shoes for him, while Dave wrestled Nancy off the back of the couch to put her shoes on as she wriggled, Sam carefully supporting Ivan's head with her arm as she glanced up at them-"Nancy, don't be naughty-", Nancy's shoes clattering over the floor as Dave rocked Elwen back and forth on his shoulders. Ivan had been on her lap, big eyes on her face. She'd smiled at him and after a moment, he'd let out a small, happy-sounding gurgle.

It had been slightly surreal the previous evening, when Dave had walked into the flat, about fifteen minutes after Gabby and Craig had arrived. He'd kissed her as usual, and Sam had been surprised at how easy it had been to lean against him, sitting with their arms around each other, though she'd noticed that Craig had glanced at Dave once, the whisper of a frown between his eyebrows.

They'd waited to talk about it until they were in bed, Sam wriggling against him, propping her copy of _The Miniaturist_ against his shoulder. Dave's arm had slipped around her, strong and comforting. "Not a bookshelf."

"How was he?" Sam had felt him tense very slightly but only for a second.

Dave had put down his own book, letting Sam's head rest on his chest. "He was OK." His voice had been guarded suddenly, the way he's never had to be around her.

Maybe he'd felt that hit her harder than she'd thought, because he'd squeezed her suddenly, and then said "We were in his hotel room. He was working."

Because Sam knew that this wass meant to answer her question without her needing to ask it, she asked it. "Did you kiss?"

She'd felt David tense, but he didn't avoid the question. "Yeah." He opened his mouth, as though about to say something else, but then just said "....Yeah."

Sam almost laughed, but not quite.

_You're having an affair. I'm lying here, on your chest, cuddling you, and we're talking about you having an affair._

David's arms tightened around her. "I can stop." He shook his head suddenly. "I shouldn't have gone. I'll stop."

"Don't."

She should want him to stop. She should have been telling him to stop.

"Why?" It took a moment to realise it was Dave who had asked it, not her.

Sam lifted her head to stare at him. "I don't know" she admitted softly. "I really, really don't know."

Dave's face winced slightly, as though she'd just reached out and scratched him.

"I don't, I just-" Sam pressed her forehead into his shoulder. "I don't know why."

And she doesn't. She remembers her and Emily talking as teenagers, stretched out on the grass in front of Ginge Manor, when boyfriends were a far-off dream and not something they could reach out to touch.

"You'd throw him out" Emily had said, blowing the fluff off a dandelion. "Of course you would. Even _Mum_ did that."

But that had been years ago, and this is now.

This is Dave.

"I don't know" she'd said. "Really, I don't."

David's arms had wrapped around her and he'd squeezed, kissing her head. Sam had lain against him, neither of them speaking, holding onto each other in the dim lamplight.

Dave's hand wraps around hers', and squeezes once. Sam stirs the porridge again, glancing over at Florence, now, showing Chris her koala, and she leans into David's shoulder for a moment, before the cameras can capture it.

* * *

"So you're in Year Six-" Tom says, pointing at Nancy. He spins the lid of the syrup bottle between his fingers.

"Yeah-" Nancy tries not to glance towards the kitchen, where Uncle Craig and Auntie Gabby are standing, watching them eat. Nancy knows they don't mean to be, but the effect's a little weird.

"You're Year Four-"

"Four-" says Elwen, stirring his porridge.

"And?" Chris looks at Florence, who's guiding her own spoon to her mouth slowly.

"Reception" says Dad, at the same moment as Flo says "'ception."

"Right." Tom claps his hands together. "Now the-the cameras-"

Nancy looks over the table at them. They've moved the cameras back from the table now, so they're not nearly jutting into Flo's face, but they're still there, like big black insects at the edge of the kitchen.

"When the red light goes on, then that means the camera's on-" Tom says, looking round at them. "But we're just going to put them on while you're talking-I'll tell you when-and we're just going to keep talking, and anything you guys aren't happy with when you see the clips, they'll take out."

"K" says Elwen, glancing at Nancy, who shrugs at him. They've already heard this before. Flo's looking at the ceiling, waving her spoon around like an aeroplane.

"And if you want to stop-" Dad says, touching Nancy's wrist gently, his voice lowered further than Tom's. "We'll stop."

Nancy glances down the table to see Mum watching her, though she looks away when Nancy's eyes meet hers'. Nancy looks back to Dad and nods. "'K."

"So-" Tom spins the lid again. "Nancy's the one who's writing a book-"

Elwen bursts out laughing. Nancy rolls her eyes and looks at Dad.

Dad shrugs sheepishly. "It came up."

"None of us are allowed to read it" Mum points out, taking a spoonful of porridge. "So Nancy's not-she's keeping it under lock and key-"

"It's not a book" Nancy mutters, wishing she'd never talked about the stupid thing.

"It could be" Dad tells her, and Nancy rolls her eyes, shoving a spoonful of porridge in her mouth.

"Do you not want to talk about it?" Tom asks her with a grin, and Nancy kicks Elwen under the table, who's still giggling.

"Nancy-" Mum gives her a warning look from the other end of the table.

"How's Book Day coming, then?" Dad asks, and Nancy's about to glare at him when he says "World Book Day, for school-it's-"

"It's tomorrow-" Mum says. "So we'd better get your costumes out tonight."

"Is mine ready?" Elwen asks suddenly, and Nancy nods, recognizing the olive branch. "Yeah, I just got the hat done this morning-"

"Yeah, Nancy was up early-" Mum says, taking another spoonful of porridge.

"Er-how's Book Day going, Nance?" Dad's stirring his porridge next to her, as Nancy takes a spoonful of her own.

"Er-Book Day's going awesome-" She swallows her porridge quickly. "I thi-I've got some-"

"I heard that sewing machine-whizzing-"

"No-that-that wasn't in the night-"

"Was that you?"

"That was in the morning-" Nancy stirs her porridge again. "I woke up at-six-"

Florence's expression makes her laugh, big blue eyes fixed on her over her porridge bowl. Nancy reaches out to her, guides the spoon back between her fingers.

"Right-well, that was that noise, I thought it was-Mummy doing something-" Dad stirs his spoon, mixing in the milk."But that was you?"

"No, that was me." Nancy takes another spoonful of porridge.

"Er-Nancy has been sewing all the stuff-" Dad says to Tom, across the table, while Nancy chews. "So this is like Book Day-"

"Right-" Tom grins back at them. Nancy gives him a smile, then glances at Flo, who's still playing aeroplane with her spoon.

"What are you going as?" Dad points at Elwen, who's waving his own spoon at Flo.

"Robin Hood-"

"Robin Hood-"

"Yes-" Elwen bounces slightly in his seat, having got over the black camera looming behind his head.

"Have you got a bow?"

"Mmmhmm." Nancy swallows her porridge. "I have a bow-"

"Yes-I have a bow-"

"And arrows-"

"And arrows-" Nancy reminds him.

"And I have an _arrow-"_ Elwen says, with a grin at Nancy.

"And a quiver?" Dad asks.

Nancy glances at Flo, who sits innocently, as though she was not personally responsible for the destruction of the latter. "Yeah-"

"Sword?"

Elwen clears his throat slightly. "No, that's the only problem-I _don't_ have a quiver."

"You don't have a quiver-"

Mum laughs slightly. "Don't you have a quiver?"

"But you've got a sword?"

"I thought you _did_ have a quiver?"

Flo's voice pipes up from the other end of the table. "I liked the _arms-"_

Nancy has no idea how Flo claims to have mistaken the quiver for arms, but that's Flo.

"I _did_ have a quiver, but then-but then-erm-" Elwen nearly glances at Flo. "As you would expect, it-er-ended up-"

Nancy's not sure but she reckons Flo pitching a screaming fit on camera if she's blamed for the destruction of Elwen's quiver might not serve to paint them as an ideal family breakfast.

"Can you take a sword to school, is that all right?"

Nancy catches Elwen's gaze and rolls her eyes. "Yep-"

_"Yes."_ Elwen hides his exasperation less. "It is _a wooden sword-"_

"Right, OK-" Dad looks like he's trying not to smile.

"And it's for an _outfit."_ Elwen wriggles in his seat, as though to make his point more emphatically."

"Right." Elwen rolls his eyes again as he turns back to his porridge.

"Well, that's cool."

Nancy nearly throws her head into her porridge bowl as Dad glances at her. "What is it, Nance-"

"Dad, stop talking like us" she mutters into the table, making Tom laugh, though thinking of her classmates' reaction, Nancy's deadly serious.

It's as Dad laughs, and Elwen looks up-"You do-you _do_ need to, though"-that Nancy, lifting her head, notices the red light on the camera behind Flo, shining quietly as they speak, and realises she didn't even notice when they started filming her.

* * *

Florence can see _cameras._ There's a _big_ camera near Elwen, and there are ones over in the corner. Mummy and Daddy say not to worry, but Florence _likes_ the cameras.

She turns round in her chair, waving at one of them with a smile. She hears Mummy laugh and Elwen reaches over to tug Flo back into her chair.

Flo's finished her breakfast, and she can hear the grown-ups talking, with the words too long for her ears, so she feels like she does in the sea in Cornwall, when the waves are too loud for her to hear Daddy's voice, but she's pressed against his bare chest, his arms warm around her, her ear against his heart.

But they were talking about Book Day and Florence can remember her costume, with the fairy wings that are so soft they feel like they might disappear when she touches them, and even though Nancy's asked Daddy something about the en-vir-ment, which is to do with leaves and parks and weather, and Daddy's talking to her, Florence can't wait to ask.

"And that-"

"Daddy?"

Daddy gives her the smile he does when Florence says his name, like the sun coming out slowly in the morning. "Yes?"

"We don't know what the teachers are gonna be."

Nancy laughs through her mouthful of porridge.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure they do-I think the point is-"

"Yeah-"

"Yes, the teachers-" Nancy and Elwen's voices clash together.

"Do-do you not know what your teacher-" Mummy's looking at her from way at the other end of the table.

"Do they?"

"Yeah-"

"Yeah, yeah, they all dress up" Mummy tells him, looking back at her porridge.

"Yeah-"

"The teachers will all do, like, a surprise thing or something" Nancy tells her, and she catches Flo's spoon before Flo can drop it, which makes Flo wriggle in her chair.

"Yeah, and-" She looks at Tom and decides Tom might not know about Book Day. "They're gonna dress up _too!"_ she tells him, her voice climbing up to the ceiling.

Tom smiles, and Florence feels taller.

"Mmmm-" Mummy says it through her porridge.

"Right-" Daddy's scratching his head. "So you've got fairy wings, have you-"

"So there's-" But Florence wants to make sure Tom understands. "A surprise for _us-"_

"What did they dress up as _last_ year?" Elwen says across the table to Nancy, but Daddy's voice is louder. "Have you got enough things?"

"Usually, they just dress up as-erm-"

"I mean, why are you not going as Elsa-" Daddy's smiling at her. "That's what I want to know-"

Daddy's smiling, but Florence feels the corners of her mouth turn down like a letterbox because she _asked_ to go as Elsa, but Nancy said it's a film, not a book, and she wouldn't be allowed, and that makes Florence sad, because she wants it to be a book too.

"Yeah-" Nancy's rolling her eyes.

"Because it's not a book-" Mummy's hand hits Daddy's arm gently, the way it does when she's not really angry with him.

"I _want_ to" Florence says, remembering when Nancy told her she couldn't go as Elsa, and all the bad, sad feelings about it welling up in her chest again.

"It's not a book-" Nancy's rolling her eyes and laughing too, and Mummy's hand hits Daddy's arm again. "It's not a book-"

"I know, but-it's not a book-" Daddy's trying not to laugh, Flo can tell, and it makes her want to scowl, but then Tom gives her one of those funny grins grown ups do when they're trying to make children laugh, and Elwen tickles her under the chin, and Flo feels a little bouncier in her chest.

* * *

"Anyway, you've got some interesting views on school food-" Nancy's finished her porridge now and is sliding her fingers in and out of each other, wondering if she's meant to be saying anything particularly interesting for the cameras to pick up, and if people are really going to be that happy watching them eat breakfast anyway.

She looks up at Dad's words, opening her mouth, but Elwen gets in first. "It's _absolutely disgusting."_

Dad bursts out laughing next to her. Mum's eyeballing him. "I'm not sure that we should be-"

Dad's still laughing, though. Nancy glances at Mum and decides to risk it, even as Mum leans round, switching her gaze to Elwen now. "Are you-"

"I brought home a chip that was _half green"_ Nancy tells Tom, firmly, remembering marching into the flat with it a few weeks ago.

"Yeah-" Florence is beaming, though she probably doesn't even remember.

Mummy's frowning, but she's laughing too. Nancy hastens to press her advantage.

"I made _sure_ I brought that home." They hadn't actually done anything with it, and it had gone in the bin, but Nancy's pretty sure it's the thought that counts or something.

"Yeah, she was zooming round the kitchen with it-" Dad pulls her into his side, kissing her head. "She was going "Look at this chip-""

"All I will say" Tom tells them, grinning. "Is that your dad can _fix_ things like this, and don't let him tell you that he can't-" He grins at Elwen. "If the chips aren't up to scratch-"

"Well, I've been saying-"

"You can-" Tom's laughing, and Nancy laughs too, even though it's the kind of joke grown ups make to kids that they've forgotten that when they were kids, they never found funny. But Dad squeezes his arm around her and kisses her head again, and she feels safer tucked into his side, even with the red lights of the cameras glowing in the corners of her eyes.

* * *

"Right, come here, pumpkin-" Daddy's patting his knee, and Florence scurries over, because she likes it when Daddy does her hair. She climbs up, glancing over her shoulder at the big black camera that's followed them into one of the living rooms, and looks round.

"The _camera's_ there-"

"I know." Daddy kisses her on the head. "Do you want to be a big girl and look away from the camera, like Daddy said-"

Florence quite wants to give the camera a big smile, but Mummy and Daddy say that it's safer not to, and Daddy's pointing over her head, and so Florence looks away.

"Cameras-will the cameras be there after _school?"_ she asks Daddy, as he gathers her hair up in his hands, but nice and gently so it doesn't pull.

"No-" Dad's pulling the bobble round now. "They'll all have gone back to work while you go to school."

Flo waves at the cameras. "Bye-bye cameras-"

Dad laughs, pulls her hair into a ponytail, leans in and presses his mouth to her cheek in a big kiss. Florence slides down off his knees, tugging at her ponytail, Dad's laugh bursting like a bubble in the air behind her. "Don't fiddle with it, or it will all fall out-"

Florence lets Daddy's hands brush her hair behind her as she reaches the door. She leans back into him. It doesn't matter if her hair falls out, Daddy will catch it.

* * *

"Right-"

Nancy pulls down her coat, as Mum kneels down and zips Florence's puffer jacket up. Tom's come out into the hall to say goodbye to them, leaning back against the wall. "It was lovely to meet all of you" he says, bending down to shake Florence's hand. Nancy smiles at him. "Nice to meet you, too."

Tom takes the hand she offers him, looking amused. "Thank you-"

The cameras are gathered at the end of the hallway, with the men talking to Uncle Craig, who motions at Mum. Mum, who's trying to help Elwen's arm into the sleeve of his coat, doesn't notice and Uncle Craig walks down the hall towards them.

"Sam-they just want one more quick shot at the stairs-of you taking them down-"

Mum looks up at him, hair falling over her face. "Craig, we need to get them out to school-"

"Well, maybe-just one of them-"

Mum looks up again sharply. "No."

"Not their face-"

"No."

Nancy glances at Tom, then at Elwen. "Mum-"

"Craig, we had them-" Mum glances at her, her mouth tightening.

"I'll do it." Nancy doesn't know why she says it.

Mum's head snaps up. "No, you won't."

"It's not showing my face."

"I don't care, Nance."

"I've got to get my homework, anyway-"

"No."

Uncle Craig clears his throat. "We don't need any shot of you taking the kids to school. Or of them coming down the stairs. If Nance is going up to get her shoes though, we can just get a shot of the back of her head going up the stairs."

"No."

"Not up close. From the hallway. Just her heading towards the stairs."

"No."

Nancy tugs at her sleeve. "Mum, I want to."

"Nance, I said no."

"Sam." Craig's voice is soft. "You did say-that we could have a couple of spontaneous shots."

"You had one of Flo."

_"Mum."_ Nancy sets her jaw, in a way, though she doesn't know it, that's remarkably similar to her father. "You promised. I _said_ it was OK."

Mum hugs her elbows tightly. Uncle Craig puts a hand on her arm, cautiously. "Sam. It's only her running to the stairs. She'll only run past them, she doesn't need to be mic-ed up or anything. Her face will be hidden."

Nancy meets her mother's eyes. "Please."

Mum's jaw works slightly, then she looks away. "Fine." She puts her hands on Nancy's shoulders-Nancy can feel them shaking. "Fine. Just-only the back of her head."

Uncle Craig looks at Nancy, his eyes sharper. Nancy looks back and then he blinks. "Only the back of her head."

A few minutes later, Nancy's standing at the end of the hallway. Mum's next to her, and so's Uncle Craig. Dad, who appeared a few moments ago once he'd heard the cameras were going back on, crouches down next to her. "You only have to go towards the stairs, Nance. Just like normal."

Nancy nods. She's not even sure why she wants to do it. But she glances at Uncle Craig, who glances at the cameramen, who are already filming. Nancy can see the red lights on the cameras.

Mum hugs herself hard, but when she speaks, her voice is steady. "Make sure you remember your homework, there's no point in going back up otherwise."

Somehow the words relax into Nancy's shoulders, and she nods, scurrying towards the door.

Mum's voice echoes behind her. "And Nancy, will you please get your shoes on, please?"

Nancy scampers past the doorway, to the stairs, and by the time she reaches the top, trying to search her brain for where she kicked off her shoes last night, she barely notices the cameras at all.

* * *

Craig waits until they're in the middle of a break between taking shots in the living room-Dave's sitting on the couch, having thrown his red box temporarily to the side-and then sits down next to him. "How're you doing?"

David gives him his typical grin. "Could be worse. Why, how about you?"

Craig's used to David's way of batting back questions that hit too close to the bone, but now, he lets David do so.

"I'm good." He leans back. "We should discuss how we're going to handle it when Nancy's school choice gets out, by the way. I mean, I know we're not going to announce it, but you know how this stuff works."

David rolls his eyes. "Can we get away with not confirming it?"

Craig sucks his teeth. "We could probably get away with not actually saying the school name ourselves. That'll get out anyway, we don't have to confirm it. Just confirm it's a state girls comprehensive, went about applying in the usual way, blah di blah. It's all true, so there shouldn't be any issues with it."

David rolls his eyes again. Craig gives him a squeeze of the arm. "It's fine. It's not like the situation with Blair and the Oratory-this is a local school, it would make sense for you to send her there. Plus, there's precedent-it's a follow-on school for the primary. It'll probably go down well. Plus, what can they argue? That you should have sent her private?"

David arches an eyebrow, then glances at Craig. "How do you think this is going?"

Craig shrugs. "Good. You can see the clips of the kids later, you can edit out anything you don't like, it'll be fine."

David sinks his chin into his hands. Craig, feeling a stab of guilt, bites his lip. "Look, you know it'll make Sam more self-conscious if you're there."

"I wasn't thinking about that."

"What?"

David looks at him. Craig stills, wondering suddenly if David's about to broach the subject for him.

But then David looks away. "Nothing, it's fine."

Craig waits a moment, then says "Hey, you know that thing with Miliband last night?"

He almost feels his heart sink when he notices David's shoulders sink slightly.

But David meets his eyes. "Yeah, the-the thing-going to the hotel, the debates thing-"

"Yeah." Craig waits, choosing the words carefully, giving David an invitation. "Have you-did you-when did he let you know he needed to see you?"

He waits for even a flicker of something to cross David's face.

But it doesn't. David just leans back, a touch too relaxed. "Oh, it was yesterday afternoon. He just had to clear it with-you know, Baldwin and his lot."

"Right." Craig nods, feeling confirmation thudding dully into his stomach even though it's what he expected. "Right."

"Why?" To anyone else, David would have looked almost uninterested, reaching for his phone. But Craig sees the slight flicker of his eyes, his eyebrows pull together very slightly.

"No reason" Craig says quietly, heart a low, steady drumbeat, already wondering when he's going to get a chance to phone Baldwin.

* * *

"If this doesn't seem like a funny question-" Tom's leaning against the counter, as Sam tries to keep half an eye on him and half on the spoon she's tapping against the mug as she stirs. "Does him being the Prime Minister mean anything to the kids?"

Sam's done interviews before, of course-she was more nervous back in the 2010 election, when Trevor McDonald came to their house in King's North to interview her, though in some ways it was easier-it was billed as a straight-up interview, with sitting down, looking at the interviewer and answering questions. This, which Craig has said about five times, is more of a casual chat, which means that she and Tom have to pretend to be making a cup of tea and chatting, in complete ignorance of the large black camera in the kitchen doorway.

A good part of it is that she doesn't have any "lines", which Steve insisted on last time. Craig had seemed pretty much resigned to the idea, when they were discussing it last night, that that wouldn't be happening.

"It's not like it's going to be a political interview" he'd pointed out, with a glance at Dave. "There just needs to be-you know, it's a more human one."

That doesn't mean Sam can just talk, though. There are only certain things to hand over about the kids-precious little snatches of them, that are only to be given in the briefest of glimpses to the outside world before being tucked back between her fingers.

"They're really lucky, they go to a really nice school, it's a really down-to-earth, normal school-it's a very _small_ school-"

She'd actually been slightly worried about that, when they'd been looking at primary schools for Nancy. "Isn't she going to stand out more, there?" she'd pointed out to Dave, when they'd been looking at the fact there were only about 200 kids in the whole school-only 30 and one class in each year. "You know, if you do get elected?" Or not, even. If Dave lost the 2010 election, Nancy would only be six, but people would still know-the parents, if not the children.

Dave had shrugged. "Perhaps, but-we can't shield them from everything. And plus-they can get lost in big schools, can't they?"

"That's true" Sam had conceded. The thought of sending Nancy-and later, Elwen-into some massive, four-form entry school where there would be over nine hundred loud, jostling children for theirs' to contend with for attention, made her flinch.

"Plus" Dave had said, rolling up his sleeves slightly, glancing at a photograph of them holding Nancy above the doorway into his office-they'd been in the kitchen at King's North Road, Dave reaching up for a bottle of wine. "I'd rather-if you had to choose, I'd rather Nancy stand out than be swallowed up, if you know what I mean."

"And-erm-all the parents and teachers there, I think have made a huge effort not to make any kind of fuss around anything-"

It had been a slightly surreal experience, sitting down at a small, child-sized table with Mrs Doyle and-Sam can't even remember her name, she thinks it might have been Miss de Bryas, but she's not sure-Nancy's teacher at the time, the Friday after Dave had given her that phone call in the middle of doing Nancy's homework with her, with the kids safely at Michael and Sarah's for the evening. She'd been given a cushioned chair, her hands wrapped round the large bump that was Florence, Dave sitting next to her, and next to him, a security expert from MI5, whom Mrs Doyle had offered tea to as though it was perfectly normal to have the Secret Service walk into one of her school's classrooms. Miss Karim had been there too-Elwen hadn't started at St Mary Abbots then, but he'd already had his Reception place confirmed for September-and there'd been something vaguely, almost interestingly horrifying about them discussing things like _terrorist attacks_ and _security_ and _planned procedures_ in the middle of a classroom where Sam could see a row of childrens' painted self-portraits beaming down at them from the wall, Nancy's among them.

Of course, soon, they'll have to do the same thing at Grey Coat.

"So 90% of our-day-to-day life remains very much unchanged from what it was before, but so-" Sam shrugs. "You know, issues come up-recently, um-Florence, obviously-" She can't help but glance towards the doorway at this, at Craig, who's just moved back into the room to take his place on one of the sofas, watching the interview carefully, trying to remember if she's already told him this story. "Ha-you know, I-so-obviously, you know-still doesn't _really_ understand-"

Tom nods, encouraging.

"You know-she's been born and brought up here, she's only little-" Sam turns back to the mug, checking to see if the teabag's left it strong enough. "She's just started school-erm-er-" She pours the excess water down the sink, turning back to Tom. "She came home from school one day, saying, you know-"My daddy's the Prime Minister!"-and the other children kind of _pounced_ on her-"

Tom laughs.

"They were sort of like, "You can't-"you know-"You can't say that, it's _really_ uncool-" Sam nearly laughs. ""People will think you're _bragging-"-_ and she's like, "What's _bragging?"_

Tom laughs, louder this time, as Sam does, too. "You know, her vocabulary isn't really good enough to understand that, you know, like-you know _-"Boasting,_ Florence, _boasting-""-_ she's like "I-ah, what do you mean-kind of-boasting-"-so anyway, they managed to-you know, get it into her that she couldn't-you know, say-urm-you know, go around saying that at school."

Tom nods, taking a sip from his own mug.

"And then my _mum_ came _-"_ Sam laughs. "I was away, for work, actually-my mum-they rang me, because they were sort of hysterical with laughter-" She hadn't been able to tell what they were saying at first, because Nancy was trying to laugh and push Elwen away from the phone at the same time.

"Because my mum came round to have tea with them-and-er-Florence had gone up to her and said-" Sam lowers her voice. ""Don't tell anyone, but my daddy's the Prime Minister!""

Tom bursts out laughing.

"Which, of course, the others thought was _hilarious-"_

"Right-"

Sam turns back to the tea, laughing. "So, you do, you know, obviously, there are kind of-issues-" She squints at the cup, as she adds more water from the kettle to it. "But, in the main, I think they've managed to be incredibly-you know, they cope with it really well."

"As a-as a _couple-"_

Sam glances up automatically as she puts the kettle down, tucking her hair behind her ear, her eyes flickering to Craig, who's sitting on the edge of the sofa cushions, beaming at her. He gives her a thumbs-up, mouths one word: _Jackpot._

"It seems to me that you've had this kind of-" Tom glances at her over his joined hands, choosing his words carefully. "Really-forensic, determined focus on-trying to-keep things "normal"-"

Sam doesn't look at Craig, that mouthed word still prickling silently in her chest. She knows Craig didn't mean it badly, but something about the suggestion feels odd, almost creepily wrong-the same feeling she'd got seeing microphones be sewn into her children's school shirts, as though she was watching them be prepared to undergo some painful medical procedure.

"And I get the impression that you particularly have sort of-slightly drilled it into him, with a, with a-" Tom gestures. "You know, all the time-"

"Yeah-"

""Don't let it go to your head-"-you know-"-It'll end-""

"Yeah-"

"I mean, he's probably-"

"Well, as you can see there, the children do a pretty good job of that-"

"Yeah, they do, yeah, I saw that-I saw that, yeah-"

"They don't let him get away with anything-they take the mick, all day long-"

"I saw that, yeah-"

"Erm-but no, no, obviously, when we moved here, it was incredibly-" She pauses, weighing the words in her mouth. "It was incredibly daunting, you-you _know_ , I was-I was terrified of the impact it was going to have on-the _children_ , on us as a family, on our _marriage-"_

The last word sticks slightly in her throat. By the look on his face, Tom hasn't noticed, but Sam can suddenly see Dave's face again that Wednesday lunchtime after PMQs, almost pushing her back onto their bed, the way his face had crumpled as he blurted it out, the first time.

She takes a sip of tea, swallows it down, levels her words.

"Yeah-"

She remembers the sheer roar of noise from behind them when they'd first got out of the cars in Downing Street, David squeezing her hand slightly as they walked towards the door. "You OK?" he'd murmured, with a quick grin, having noticed the way her hand had roamed to the swell of her stomach automatically the moment she'd stepped out of the car into the wall of noise, as though shielding their bump from the outside world.

"But it's been _much_ easier than I expected it to be-" She takes a deep breath. "Erm-you know, obviously, I go to the same office-the children go to the same school-er-er-there's a lot of our life that hasn't _changed_ -and-and we-"

Apart from him kissing Ed Miliband. That's been one hell of a change.

"We have a lot of focus on just-being on our own, keeping up with our old friends-"

She wonders suddenly, what would happen, if she said that right now. It's not an angry wondering-not something she wants to do. But, Sam latches onto the thought hard-what the hell would happen? What would Tom do? God, what would _Craig_ do? Stop the filming? Think she was joking? Poor Craig would nearly have a bloody cardiac arrest.

She's not going to do it, but God, she wonders if that's happened before.

Then again, has this _ever_ happened before?

"We've both got big families-I'm one of eight siblings, he's one of four-" She swallows hard, as though making sure the words won't sneak out of her mouth without her noticing. "And I think that keeps you _grounded-_ you've got to try and-" She takes a deep breath, shakes her head. "You know-not let your life _change_ in any way."

Tom reaches for his mug, another question already on the tip of his tongue, and Sam glances towards Craig, almost wondering if he's about to ask her to say any of it again. But his eyes are crinkled in a grin as they meet hers, dimples creasing his cheeks, and he sticks out his hand in another thumbs-up, mouthing silently a word that makes Sam almost flinch as she thinks of what would have happened if she'd said what she'd thought about: _Perfect._

* * *

"OK, no. He didn't give anything away." Craig glances at the closed door, keeping his voice low. "Miliband?"

He can almost feel Baldwin's voice prickle through the phone at the sheer indignation of the conversation actually _happening._ "We haven't asked him yet."

Craig rolls his eyes. "Oh, come _on."_

"He's not an open book like yours'" Baldwin says, somewhat nastily. "He's hard to read."

Craig raises an eyebrow. "Or you're searching for a spine."

"Yeah, if you want to be like that, then fuck this."

"Fine. Don't come running to me when-"

Craig pauses.

"When what?" A note of triumph creeps into Baldwin's voice now. "It's not _us_ who are going to get fucked over this, Oliver."

Craig counts to five before answering. "And it's not just _us_ either."

There's a silence. Craig waits before saying "And that's not what you thought yesterday."

There's another, angrier silence. Craig knows they're both remembering the day before, when he'd picked up the phone to hear Baldwin's voice almost scrambling into his ear "What the fucking hell is this about, a fucking _debate meeting?"_

"Fine." Craig gets a brief, vindictive stab of pleasure at the sound of the word being forced through clenched teeth. "Talk to him later."

"Be careful" Craig warns. "Steamroller him and you won't get anything out."

"I know how to fucking talk to him, Oliver."

Craig allows himself a smirk. "Well, since he's such a _closed book."_

The dialling tone at the other end makes Craig smirk again, but only for a moment. He shoves the phone into his pocket, then stares at himself in the Camerons' bathroom mirror, noticing the tube of raspberry toothpaste clearly meant for Flo, the bottle of Aesop handwash by the sink, the L'Oreal children's detangler on the side of the bathtub.

"Careful" he mutters, to his own reflection, not sure whether or not he's talking to himself.

* * *

Daniel does not look happy to be a skeleton.

"Um-" Ed stares at him, as the boys stand in the hall against the wall, Daniel looking miserable as he tugs at the skeleton costume. "Which character ith that meant to be, th-sweetie?"

Daniel shrugs. Justine gives him an awkward pat on the head. "There are skeletons in lots of stories, aren't there, Mr D?"

Daniel jerks away slightly, as if he's been given a small electric shock.

"I thought it had to be a th-specific book?" Ed's bluffing slightly-until this morning, he hadn't even registered today was World Book Day, despite Cameron talking about Nancy sewing his kids' costumes.

"We can think of one, can't we?" Justine manages to pat Daniel's head this time, but he shakes it furiously, as if trying to shake the touch right out of his hair.

Ed glances at Sam, who's standing in a Fireman Sam T-shirt, with a yellow helmet on. "What'th-"

"The Nursery children have to dress up too" says Justine too brightly. "So we thought Fireman Sam, didn't we?"

Sam shakes his head. "No-"

"No?" Justine tips her head to one side.

"Sam wanted to be Peter Rabbit" Daniel says flatly..

Ed looks at Justine. They do have a Peter Rabbit book-he's pretty sure Tom bought it for them a couple of years ago, for when they were having photos taken on a train and they needed some toys to be spread on a table in front of them-but he doesn't remember ever reading it to either Daniel or Sam. Or maybe it was Peppa Pig.

"I know" Justine says, still too brightly. "But Mummy didn't have time, did she? And Fireman Sam's just as good, anyway."

"Fireman Sam's a _cartoon"_ says Daniel, even more flatly. "Not a _book."_

Justine shrugs. "It doesn't really make a difference, though, does it?"

"It's _called-"_ Daniel says, reaching for his book bag. " _Book_ Day."

Ed glances at her. He's only wondering, but Justine bristles as if he's said something out loud.

"I've been busy" she says, even though the boys are standing right next to them. "I didn't have time to sit around-sewing cotton wool and whatever else-the skeleton thing was on Amazon Prime, I had to cut the labels out this morning-"

"I didn't say you did." Ed can hear his tone sounding defensive and he turns away from her too quickly, biting his lip, though he's not even sure what else he might say.

"I wanted to be an Octonaut" says Daniel, staring out at the front door, as though neither of them are there.

"Well, that's a cartoon, isn't it?" Justine hands Daniel his book bag, taking his hand and pushing the handle into it when Daniel's arm dangles limply at his side.

"So's Fireman Sam" Daniel says, without looking at her, and Justine's hand pulls back from him a little too fast.

"Um-" Ed has no idea what to say to them and so he bends down and kisses Daniel on the head a little too quickly. Daniel doesn't pull away as he did with Justine, but he doesn't look at Ed either. Ed kisses Sam quickly, half on his cheek, half in his hair. Sam blinks up at him but doesn't say anything.

"Right, come on, chaps-"

"Are you taking them?" It occurs to Ed, vaguely, that he hadn't been sure who'd be taking them. He'd just assumed it would be Zia.

"Er-yeah, for today-" Justine pats Sam's shoulder, hustling him towards the door. Daniel lets his bag drag on the floor, leaning away from her with a sigh. "Are you going to say bye-good luck to Daddy-"

Ed's not sure where the question comes from, but maybe it covers the silence caused by neither of his sons even looking at him. "When did you read Peter Rabbit to them?"

Justine stops at the door, glances back at him. "I didn't" she says, and even before she says "Zia must have", it occurs to Ed that she didn't even have to think about it.

* * *

"El-El, if you shove your fingers up behind someone's head one more time, I'll cut them off-"

Nancy turns round, grabbing Elwen's hat and hits him with it.

"Oi." Mum steps forward and snatches the hat from between them, shoving it back onto Elwen's head. "Come on, you're keeping Auntie Sarah waiting, for pity's sake-"

Flo makes a disgruntled sound as she drops her wand, and Nancy tugs her back up by her ponytail. "Come on, Flo-"

"Bea-" Auntie Sarah steps in, to grab her wand. "Bea-I've got to get into work if I'm going to see their Book Parade, so would you just _stop_ -"

Bea shoves her chin onto Nancy's shoulder, holds up her mobile phone. "Here, let's take a selfie. Malfoy and Luna-"

"You can do it in the car" Mum barks.

Auntie Sarah holds up a finger. "Don't you dare put it online, Bea. Especially not any photos from the flat."

"Yeah, I know, I know." Bea rolls her eyes, shoving her phone back into her pocket. Nancy, even as Bea nestles her chin over her shoulder for the next picture, sticking her fingers up in a V sign, can't help but remember that Bea had Instagram and SnapChat by the end of September last year, when she started at Grey Coat. According to her, everyone in her class has them, but Nancy's already been told by Mum and Dad that she can't. She can't even have a _phone_ until she's thirteen. Mum said it's to do with security and everything else, but Nancy can't help but think, even as Bea pushes their cheeks together to make her smile, it's just another way she'll be different from all the others.

* * *

David's just examining the photos of the kids on his own phone, as Sam takes a couple more quick snaps in front of the kitchen entrance when Craig heads up to him, looking harassed.

"It's all right, we're not putting them anywhere-"

"No." Craig bites his lip, glancing over David's shoulder at the kids. "Have you seen this?"

David glances at him. "What?"

"This." Craig holds out his phone.

* * *

Ayesha catches up with Tom before he gets into Ed's office. "Did you talk to Alastair yet?"

Tom rolls his eyes. "No. Had fucking Oliver pissing about on the phone-look, I reckon we should leave the David thing for a bit, get Alastair to talk to him about it once it's died down-"

"Don't."

Tom blinks. "Yeah, well, I'm not going to do it _now,_ I'm-"

"No, _don't."_ Ayesha holds out her phone, fingers fumbling to bring up the article. "Have you seen this?"

* * *

"Is your dad here?" Nancy asks, as Lola pushes herself up on her tiptoes. They don't have to be in alphabetical order today, so they can stand next to each other.

Lola, whose blonde hair is pulled into two plaits, over a cowgirl-like dress, in ode to Pippi Longstocking, braces herself on Nancy's shoulder, bouncing up and down, to stare across the long playground. "Yeah. God." She ducks down behind Nancy. "Hide me."

Nancy pats her head absent-mindedly. She can see Mum and Auntie Sarah standing next to each other, both waving at what must be Flo's class who are about to go out in their parade. Dad isn't there yet. Nancy isn't too worried-Dad always turns up. The only thing she's worried about is him going and waving at her, and making it really obvious exactly whose kids are his.

"Do they do World Book Day at Grey Coat?"

"Yeah, but you have to wear something over your uniform. They have Harry Potter Day, though." Nancy glances down the line at Francesca, a quiet girl in their class who she doesn't know too well, but who's pretty nice, who she _thinks_ is going to Grey Coat with them, and who has turned up dressed as Hermione Granger. Katy's going to Emanuel, Nancy thinks, and someone in their class is supposed to be going to Summerfields, which is a boarding school in the countryside where you never have homework and you can go to class whenever you feel like it, and someone else is meant to be moving abroad. Last year, Bea was the only girl in her class who went to Grey Coat, so Nancy supposes she and Lola have it easier. She's slightly happy that only two girls apparently got into Lady Margaret from their school, though-she's not upset she's going to Grey Coat, but it still feels a bit better to know that it hasn't turned out that _loads_ have got in and Nancy was just especially stupid or something.

Lola elbows Nancy in the side. "There's your dad."

Nancy groans as she spots Dad, waving at her. Or she thinks it's her. She prays it's Elwen's class, ahead of her.

Lola digs her in the ribs, laughing. "That's so cute."

Nancy rolls her eyes. "No, it isn't." Liberty says Uncle George does exactly the same thing at school events, but at least St Paul's Girls' doesn't do World Book Day-then again, they don't have a uniform at all. No one from their class is going to St Paul's Girls', this year, though quite a few of the boys are going to St Paul's Juniors.

"Everyone loves your dad."

"No, they don't."

Lola pats her head, like a puppy. "Oh, my child."

Nancy glares at her.

Across the playground, David nudges Sam. "Have they gone yet?"

"No." Sam glances at him. "Flo held up the class while she cried."

"Is she all right?"

"Yeah. She just wanted a cuddle. Miss Karim said it often happens with Reception, apparently." Sam glances at him. "Where were you?"

David glances at her, then at the kids.

"Just getting a line out for something with Craig" he says, knowing she'll notice the tightness of his jaw, the fact he's carefully left out anything else. "I'll tell you about it later."

He fixes his eyes on the kids, gaze falling on Nancy, standing in line next to Lola, whispering in her ear. David waves.

Nancy catches his eye and glares at him. Lola beams and waves back.

Nancy folds her arms and turns her back. Lola bursts out laughing, holding onto Nancy's shoulder. David feels a slow grin break out over his face, even as his daughter refuses to turn round, watching the two of their heads together, one blonde and one dark, trying to hold onto the giggles of children trying to be older and making themselves look younger than ever.

* * *

Ed knows he's meant to be going over the same lines again. But across the Chamber, Cameron's turned round to answer a question from Turner, and Ed's eyes drift down his suit before he can stop himself.

Cameron's lost weight, he thinks, with a jolt.

Which is stupid, because they only saw each other on Monday, and he hasn't lost weight since _then._

But-

Ed's eyes travel up and down his suit again.

He's definitely slimmer than he was a few weeks ago.

He looks good.

Ed looks away sharply, the thought a sudden jolt of arousal that makes him drop his papers onto his knees.

He looks good.

Very good.

Ed stares at his papers, heart thudding, remembering Monday night suddenly. He hadn't thought he'd be able to sleep after the debate rehearsals, his thoughts feeling tight and wired, ready to bounce with arguments and rebuttals and lines to take, but to his surprise when he'd lain down in bed, he'd fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had touched the pillow.

He'd slept deeply, dreamlessly, and had woken up what felt like only a moment later to find it was early morning, then rolled over and slid back into sleep. But this sleep had been different, deep and heavy, but when he'd opened his eyes again-

When he'd opened his eyes, he'd been gasping into his pillow. He'd been touching his warm skin, and had looked down to see his hand halfway under his own boxers, fingers splayed against his stomach, muscles twitching under his touch. The dream had been half-formed between his fingers but he'd been breathing hard, feeling warm skin under his hands, running his hands over his stomach, his chin on his shoulder, kissing his neck-

(He knew it was Cameron. Of course he knew it was Cameron but that doesn't mean Ed's letting himself know he knew it was Cameron.)

He keeps feeling the ripple of that stomach under his fingers again. And again.

It seems to go with that sweep of Cameron's hair and that slimmer figure under his suit and Ed really could _kill_ him sometimes.

* * *

"Ed Miliband-"

David glances up as Miliband steps to the dispatch box. He's caught Miliband's eyes lingering on him several times in the last few minutes, but each time he's glanced up, Miliband's looked away.

Nick's sitting next to him-David had thought about telling Nick about the article Craig had pointed out to him this morning, but on second thoughts, had just asked Nick how he was and where Alberto had got into-not being shocked when Nick confirmed he was joining Antonio at the Oratory-and then had said, off-handedly, "By the way, are you sure Craig said to come and see me in the _flat_ the other day, about the TV debates?"

He'd felt Nick tense next to him, but other than a slight tightness to his "Yes", there'd been nothing else to suggest what Nick had almost walked in on that night.

"Why wouldn't he?" Nick had asked a second later, and David had glanced at him.

"Just wondering" he'd said with a shrug, and he'd looked away, ignoring Nick's gaze resting on him a moment longer than necessary.

"Mr th-Speaker-Mr Speaker-before the last election, the Prime Minister made a no-ifs, no buts promise on immigration-"

David can't help but notice Ed's gaze darts away the moment it lands on his own face.

"Can he remind the House exactly what that promise was?"

David gets to his feet lazily as Ed sits down-they'd already guessed he'd go on immigration figures, and he's come to PMQs today holding a copy of the last manifesto, courtesy of George pleading with one of the Garden Girls at the last moment this morning, complete with batting of the eyelashes, which had been rewarded with Hancock threatening to commit the episode to film.

"Well, we promised to cut ne-net migration, we've cut it from _outside_ the European Union-" David ignores the tidal wave of noise on the other side-there's a limited amount of mileage Labour can actually make out of the immigration issue, because a hell of a lot of their constituencies are being hit by it. The Conservatives might be being hit by UKIP, but Labour have got one eye open, and on the one issue the Tories are weaker on, they can't make the most of it.

"But it's increased from _inside_ the European Union, not least because we've created more jobs than the rest of the European Union put together."

He sits down, already looking forward to seeing that outraged look dawn on Miliband's face, his eyes widening, before his brow furrows, mouth stretching in a letterbox shape. David pictures it with what feels almost like a pleasant little itch in his chest.

"Ed Miliband-"

"He was rather _coy_ about his precise promith-se, Mr Speaker-" He's slightly elongated the _promise_ to stop the lisp popping up, David thinks. God, he shouldn't know Miliband's speech this well.

"It was in his _contract_ with the British people-" Miliband's not quite giving him the outraged look yet, but his self-righteous one is a close second, along with waving a piece of paper around. _""Net migration cut to the tens of thousands.""_ Miliband's looking around the bench, his tone an odd mixture of triumphant and aggrieved. "But now it's at two hundred and ninety eight thousand higher than when he took office-" Miliband glances at Bercow, all big wide eyes-David has an image of him as a child, looking earnestly up at a teacher for approval. "And here's what he said in the contract-here's what he said-"

And there's the finger.

_""If we don't deliver our side of the bargain, vote us out in five years' time.""_ Miliband's leaning on the dispatch box now-David nearly laughs, but not quite. "When he said that, did he mean it?"

"Prime Minister-"

"Well, there-there are two _reasons_ for high migration-"

David quite enjoys obfuscating-particularly when it makes them louder.

"One is the growth of our economy-and the other is that our benefits system allows people to access that benefits system straight away-"

"We've got to highlight that" Lynton had pointed out. "Make sure you dogwhistle it."

"Talking about benefits" Michael had pointed out.

Lynton had rolled his eyes over his glasses. "Any idiot knows that when they hear it in the same sentence as immigration, they can put two and two together."

"I say, let's keep the strong economy, let's change the benefits system-" David glances at Ed, who's shaking his head furiously, giving him that big-eyed look. "He wants to keep the benefits system and trash the economy!"

It's always easy to lure Miliband in on the first couple of questions-he always thinks he's got David cornered, never catches on that David's just saving the trump card for the last few points. He always thinks he's won until the last minute, every time.

"Mr Speaker, I-I do have to say to him-" Miliband's scrabbling for which point to turn to first. "His promise on immigration makes the Deputy Prime Minister's promise on tuition fees look like the model of integrity-"

David snorts. He always knows Miliband's struggling when he goes back to having a go at Nick. He wonders vaguely if Miliband will ever get over that moment he had to watch Brown realise that Nick was going with the Tories in a coalition.

"Oh, shut up, Miliband-" David smirks at Nick's yell, knowing that the tuition fees will hit the Lib Dems all the harder, but still feeling a twinge of sympathy.

"If he can break-if he can break, so spectacularly-"

David casts an eye across the dispatch box at Cooper, letting Miliband's words wash over him. "Look at Cooper" he murmurs to Nick, as they both watch Yvette nod vigorously. "She looks like she's trying to keep that dishmop on her head."

Nick snorts, even though David can tell he struggles not to, which makes the triumph even sweeter.

"A solemn promise on a fundamentally important issue-" Miliband looks as though he's about to scramble across the dispatch box. "Why on _earth_ should anyone believe any of his election promises this time?"

David almost bounces up happily, enjoying the outrage in Miliband's eyes. "W-well, well, I'm-I'm _glad_ he mentions the document, I brought it with me-"

Miliband's eyes are hovering on his glasses, which David is holding. He'd been about to lay them down, but, on impulse, keeps hold of them.

"I-I have, as you'd say, Mr Speaker, procured a copy for the interests of the House-" He emphasises the words a little too much, sending Bercow up, smiling innocently back at the slightest furrow of Bercow's brow.

"And I'd like to run _through it-"_

He relishes sliding his glasses on a little more slowly, almost feeling Miliband's gaze, like a touch, taking the movement in, hungry.

"Here are the commitments we made _-"We will protect pensions"-"_ He glances back at the benches. "We _protected_ pensions-"

He puts the glasses back on. Technically, he could keep them on the whole time. But he can still feel Miliband watching him.

_""We will train four thousand SureStart health visitors"-_ we've _trained_ four thousand SureStart health visitors-"

OK, he might bring the glasses down in a bit of a swoop at the end, but he's got to give Miliband something to watch.

_""We will protect free TV licences for the over-75s-and keep free eye tests for pensioners-"-_ we kept that promise-" Another jab of the glasses.

He allows himself a glance at Miliband, takes in his expression with a wriggle of delight in his chest.

"There-there's plenty-I've got _all day_ , Mr Speaker-" He glances at the laughter spreading through his own benches, savours the indignation under Miliband's brow.

"I think these are very important!" He widens his eyes at Bercow, the annoyance knitting his eyebrows together just the icing on the cake.

"This says _"We'll keep the winter fuel allowance"-_ we _kept_ the winter fuel allowance!"

He ducks his head down, so that he can catch a glimpse of Miliband's scowl over his glasses.

"It says that we will ensure cancer patients get the treatments they need-" He's stretching it a bit now. But only because he can. Hopefully, Bercow will have to tell him to stop, then he'll look like the idiot. Plus, it'll hardly help him when it comes to that vote George is cooking up in a few weeks' time.

He tries not to laugh at the sight of Miliband's eyes widening plaintively in the direction of the Speaker's Chair. Definitely the kid whining to the teacher.

"We made sure that happened-but, Mr Speaker, there's lots more-there's lots more-" If the entire session turns into a free PR session for the Tories, David's more than happy with it.

"Maybe I should keep going-" He takes in the Labour frontbench with a grin. "Plenty of time-"

Miliband's openly staring at Bercow now, perhaps only just grasping that he's essentially given David a manifesto platform for the entire country to see-PMQs is the only political event most, if any, of them will watch. The frantic, annoyed little flailing of the arms, makes David smile and his heart give a confusing little twist at the same time.

_"We will increase health spending every year-"_ He glances back. "We've increased health spending every year!"

He can't resist another glance back.

_"We'll introduce a married couples' tax allowance"-_ we've _introduced_ a married couples' tax allowance!"

Miliband's really glaring now.

_"We'll increase the basic state pension"-_ we've _increased_ the basic state pension-there's plenty more, Mr Speaker!" David folds up the paper carefully, for any future use. "These are commitments made, commitments kept-what a _contrast_ -what a-"

The jeering's now so loud David doesn't even hear what Bercow says, though the annoyance in the way he gestures David back to his seat says it all. "Mr Miliband-"

David doesn't care. That little display of temper from Bercow will definitely help George's vote along and anything that lets them show off a bunch of Tory promises kept is a good day for him.

And anything that makes Miliband look like that.

Particularly if it's to do with David.

* * *

"So, Mr Speaker-so-so now we know-so now-so now we know-"

Ed's seething. He's pretty sure Cameron nearly got to reciting ten fucking policies there. _Ten._

Ed could kill him.

"You can't believe the promise on immigration from the leader of the Conservative Party-"

The wall of noise from the Conservative backbenches is like shouting into a tsunami.

"It's not worth-it's not worth the paper-it's not worth the paper it's written on-"

Cameron arches an eyebrow at him, that smug smile playing about his mouth. Ed closes his eyes, telling himself not to think about dragging Cameron towards him by his collar.

"Now-"

"O-order- _o-order-"_

Ed's a little too relieved for the distraction.

_"Order-"_

"Let him keep speaking-" comes a shout from the Conservative backbenches. Bercow's mouth twitches very slightly. Ed looks away but something twists in his chest.

"Can I just ask the House-"

Ed concentrates on staring at his papers, not letting his lip tremble, too aware of Cameron's gaze, before he looks up, almost defiantly.

"Order-can I just ask the House-to have _some regard_ for the views of the _public_ about our behaviour-"

Cameron's looking at him, head tilted to the side. Ed stares back at him, willing him to smirk again. Or even just look away.

But Cameron-Cameron looks-

"-given that we'll be seeking their support in the weeks ahead-" Bercow looks around. "It's quite straightforward, really-Ed Miliband-"

"They're laughing about his broken promise on _immigration-"_ Ed blurts the words out as quickly as possible, trying not to look at Cameron, at that-that- _look-_

"Now-" His next words are sharpened by Cameron elbowing Clegg in the ribs with a grin, showing him the leaflet. Taking in Clegg's answering smirk, Ed's eyes narrow.

"Let's ask him again-he promised net migration in the tens of thousands-will he now admit that he-he has _broken that promise?"_

Cameron finally looks up, meeting Ed's gaze with that smirk, as though he's only just noticed he's in the room. Ed clenches his fists.

"Yes or no?"

He sits down, almost boiling over, as Cameron gets lazily to his feet.

"I've been very clear-"

Jesus, how does he _do_ that?

"We've _cut_ migration from outside the EU-but we've seen it rise _inside_ the EU-we've got a plan to deal with that-"

Ed tries to tug his gaze away from Cameron's glasses.

"But he talks about the commitments-Mr Speaker, I've got a few _more-"_

A bray of cheers rises from the seats behind him. Ed imagines crumpling up his speech notes and smacking Cameron over the head with them.

_"_ It says- _"We will cut wasteful spending"-_ we've _cut_ wasteful spending-"

Or just-fastening his hands into his collar, fucking grinding those words back into his mouth-

"It says we'll reduce carbon emissions-we reduced carbon emissions-"

"Not by _enough-"_ Ed can't stop himself blurting that out, though he knows it'll just serve as fuel to Cameron's fire and now that he's thought that, his face is suddenly burning.

"It says we'll have four hundred thousand a-apprentices-" Cameron glances up. "A-we've broken that promise, we've had _two million apprentices!"_

Cameron's next words are nearly drowned out by the volley of sound.

"But Mr Speaker, it _is_ election time, we're all getting to think about leaflets-" Cameron's leaning towards the dispatch box. "I've got a little _question-"_

He's angled away from Ed. Ed notices that a second before he realises that he's noticed, and realises he knows what it means.

"Apparently, you can go round to his office-"

Cameron's still not looking at him, holding out his hand.

"And he stands on a soapbox-"

Ed's insides crumple.

He turns away quickly to Balls, then back, fighting with his features.

"To make him look a little bit taller-"

That was-that was _private_ , that was-that was when they were-when they were in-

"Let's ask-" Cameron looks straight past him, eyes skimming him briefly. As if Ed's part of the seat or the box. "How many people are going to put the Leader Of The Opposition on their leaflets?"

The cheers from the Tory benches rise to a roar, a forest of hands shooting up. Cameron's laughing, leaning on the dispatch box. "Come on, hands up, hands up-"

Ed doesn't dare look behind him.

_That was private, that was-_

"Hands up -come on, guys-" Cameron's glancing behind him now, his words falling away beneath the gales of cheering. "Yeah-there we are-"

_You. Fucking. Bastard._

Cameron leans on the dispatch box, clearly fighting his own grin. "I think that's enough about leaflets for now!" and he sits down, turning to grin at Clegg and Crabb either side of him, not even glancing at Ed.

* * *

"Mr Speaker-Mr Speaker-Mr Speaker-"

David doesn't look up at him, his own words ringing in the air, tasting sour in his mouth.

It's his own fault, he tells himself. If Miliband hadn't bloody-if it hadn't been for that bloody _article-_

"So it's-so it's-so it's all about leadership-well, there's a very-excellent-"

OK, he doesn't know for _sure_ it was Miliband, but who else knew? It's too much of a fucking coincidence, for one thing-

David has to laugh at the cheers behind him, because Miliband's too good at setting his own traps, but mainly for the look on Miliband's face.

But then he remembers the way Miliband had looked away a few moments ago and there's that twist of guilt again.

"Great-" and the petulant little tone gives David the confusing urge to both roll his eyes and walk around the dispatch box and hug him.

"And there's a very good chance to discuss these issues-" Miliband glances down at his notes. "The broadcasters have proposed a live, head-to-head debate between the Prime Minister and me-" Miliband glances at Bercow. "On the 30th of April-a week before polling day-"

Someone's shrieking behind him. David can't blame them. Miliband's an idiot if he thinks they'd ever agree to it. Good grief.

"I will be at that debate-" Miliband gives him the big wide-eyed look. "The aye-aye look" David had once called it to George. "Will he be at that debate?"

"It-we're-we're having-" David doesn't even need to wait for Bercow these days. "It _is_ all about leadership, Mr Speaker, and we see no leadership from the party opposite-"

He lets the cheers die down, buying himself time to arrange his thoughts.

"What's interesting, Mr Speaker, we're having a debate now, and they cannot talk about the economy-they can't talk about jobs-"

It's one of Lynton's reptition tricks.

"Because there are more jobs being created-they can't talk about growth, because growth is going up-they can't even talk about _living_ standards-"

He's got Ameet to thank for spotting this one.

"Because of the breakthrough report today, showing living standards are back at their pre-crisis p-p-peak-"

God, that reminds him of before they knew about Balls' stammer, when they all used to mouth at him across the chamber, George urging them on. _"Come on then, spit it out!"_

"I say let's have these debates-let's get on with them before the election!"

"OK-OK-if he wants an additional debate-"

"If he willingly goes up against the Greens, I'm a dead horse" he mutters to Nick as he sits down.

"Dead cat" remarks Nick.

"Well, yeah."

"Between me and him-" Miliband's finger's going and David feels himself still slightly, the words a little heavier than he's sure Miliband meant them to be.

"Before the election-I'm very happy to agree to it-" Miliband glances down, and David knows immediately he almost fumbled the line. "But the broadcasters have set a date-"

Oh God. And David knows from that little flicker that Miliband's heard the words too.

"He says this election is all about me and him-"

Oh God.

"But the one thing he wants to avoid is a _TV_ debate-" Miliband's rushing the words out now. "Between me and him-"

Miliband actually ducks his head down at that one. Something squeezes fondly in David's chest. He can't help shaking his head slightly.

"I'll give him another chance-I'll be there-"

David nods slightly, fighting back laughter. "Of course you will" he says, more softly than he realises.

"On April 30th-a debate between me and him-" Miliband's eyeballing him. Actually eyeballing him. It's hilarious and-and almost-

Something half-painful, half-fond is pressing in David's chest- "Will he be there-yes or no?"

Someone wolf-whistles. Dear God.

"He-he's now given up on the _seven-corner_ debates-" This is too easy, not least because they know Miliband probably would do anything to get out of debating all of them at once anyway.

"He doesn't want to debate with the _Greens_ anymore-" He looks round at his benches. Crabb's shaking with laughter, but Nick's watching them closely, cheek resting on his hand, eyes keen, sharp.

"Yeah-he watched-he watched the press conference-" He's got George to thank for a way of working that disaster in. _"We_ all thought it was a _car crash_ - _he_ probably thought it was a _masterclass!"_

That even gets a few laughs from the Labour benches.

"We're having a debate _now_ -and he can't talk about the economy, he can't talk about jobs, he can't talk about living standards-he can't talk about-" David has to stop to take a breath. "He can't talk about what we've done for our economy-and the reason why-"

He leans against the dispatch box, looks Miliband dead in the eyes, as he wriggles away from Cooper. "He's got _no leadership whatsoever-"_

He sees the flinch in Miliband's eyes before he laughs, and doesn't know if that makes it worth it or not.

"The truth is, Mr Speaker-we have a recovering economy-" He ignores Balls, which he knows will ruin Balls' day, which makes David's better.

_"_ And _we mustn't let Labour wreck it."_

He sits down, cheers fading under the thudding of his heartbeat, the tide of shouts around him rising over Bercow's voice, silencing almost everything else under the roar in his ears.

* * *

"Thank you very much, Mr Speaker-does the Prime Minister believe his own behaviour-er-and that of the Leader Of The Opposition-"

David's heart nearly stops.

Oh God. Oh God.

He doesn't dare look across the dispatch box at Miliband, instead keeping his eyes on his own papers. Next to him, Nick has gone very still.

"At Prime Minister's Questions-"

David nearly goes limp with relief. Oh, thank God.

"Either enhances or dea-damages the image of the Houses Of Parliament and indeed politicians in the eyes of members of the public?"

David risks a glance across at Miliband, who's staring at Ward, with that same hurt, angry look he always wears when he's caught off-guard. David's mouth twitches, amused, as Miliband then turns and stares at him, as though trying to read David's mind.

"It-Iiia-what I would say to the Honourable Gentleman-is it is, erm-inevitably, a robust exchange-"

He carefully doesn't look at Miliband.

"There are always ways, I'm sure, we can improve-"

_God, don't say that._

"Prime Minister's Questions-but I would say-" He's not looking anywhere near Miliband. "It does have an important function-"

_Just more than you'd realise._

"Which is it does make sure we have accountable government in our country and people can ask the Prime Minister-"

He turns to face Miliband, for half a second.

"Anything they want" he finishes, and he sits down, face only slightly warmer than usual, heart still pounding.

* * *

Ed waits nervously, chewing his lip. He's never been to one of these places before. Judging by the noises on the other side, he's not meant to interrupt yet.

Wincing slightly at some of the sounds that creep through the door, he glances up, trying to keep his eye on one of the Doorkeepers. When there's been a silence for a relatively short amount of time, the man looks up at him and nods.

Ed swallows, prays his hand doesn't slip on the door handle, clamps the headphones tighter over his ears, and opens the door.

His eyes widen, breath tightening in a sudden gasp, and he only just manages to get the door shut before he squeaks out _"Jesus, Cameron!"_

Cameron barely glances up from the shaft in his hand. "Haven't you ever seen one before, Miliband?"

Ed mouths silently, wordlessly. Cameron glances up at him and, for the first time since PMQs, Ed sees the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "For God's sake, Miliband, what did you _expect_ to find at a rifle range?"

Ed feels himself blush furiously at the smile, trying to push away the sensation of Cameron's stomach trembling under his fingers, _that never even happened, for God's sake._

He glances up, as he slowly steps closer to Cameron, making sure to keep behind the line. Even looking at Cameron, standing on the other side of it, sliding the rifle back into place, makes Ed wince. God knows how someone can handle the things for fun.

He has to admit, it's smaller, narrower than he would have expected for a rifle range. The room's still big, but it's long rather than wide, with a small row of rifles, all behind a line. Ed glances at them apprehensively.

"I'm not going to hold one to your head" Cameron says, irritably, bending over to examine the position of the rifle a little more carefully, adjusting his own earphones with one hand as he does so-his voice sounds further away than usual, giving it an odd, echoing quality. "It was just the easiest place to see you."

"I thought you only wanted to do thith in offices?"

Ed feels himself blush as Cameron glances up from the rifle, one eyebrow arched. His eyes flicker up and down Ed's body for an eternity. His voice, when he speaks, is curved in something that could be amusement, but not for sure. "Who said we were going to do that anyway?"

Ed mouths helplessly, cheeks so hot he feels dizzy.

Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly. Ed's mouth snaps shut and he glares at him. "Bathtard."

Cameron laughs very slightly at that, tossing his head slightly. (The headphones don't even have the decency to fall off. The lucky dick.)

But then he glances at Ed quickly, mouth curling. "Me?"

That's all he says, before he bends over, lifts the rifle, aims at the target on the wall and, one eye squeezing shut, blasts.

Ed winces, hands clapping themselves over the headphones he'd been handed outside the room reflexively. But the muffs do their job-while the bang makes him jump, it doesn't hurt, and, when Ed's heart rate has died down a little and he lets his eyes stray across the room, he notices, with grudging respect, how close to the target Cameron's managed to get-only a few inches to the left.

He watches Cameron loading more ammunition into the rifle for a moment before he clears his throat. "I didn't know, OK? I promithe."

"Fuck" had been all that came out of his mouth, as Bob had shown him the Spectator article, expression grim, right after Ed had stormed out of PMQs, bristling at anything to do with Cameron-and he couldn't help noticing that bloody Cameron's even managed to subvert his right to _sulk_ now. "Oh, _fuck."_

"Might be time to get Alastair on" Stewart had suggested, as though this was a new and innovative idea.

Rachel had rolled her eyes. "It might be time to just disassociate ourselves from the whole bloody thing."

"Yeah." Ayesha had nodded. "You can't have someone having a go at someone else's kids. The public'll hate it."

Ed had stared at her. _"I_ hate it" is what he'd said and he'd looked back at the phone screen before he could notice the others' eyes lingering on him for a little too long.

Cameron arches an eyebrow without even looking at him.

"Oh, come _on."_ Ed walks up to the line to Cameron's right, not daring to go nearer when Cameron's got his hands on a rifle. "You know that."

Cameron cocks his head slightly, still without turning to Ed. "Do I?"

Ed stares at him. This time, when Cameron fires the gun, Ed jumps without looking away.

The gunshot rings through the air for several long seconds, Cameron still squinting past the gun, as though he might have hit something other than what's in front of his eyes. Then, Ed's voice follows through the silence. "Yeth" he says, one hand curling into a fist at his side. "You do."

There's another, taut silence. Then Cameron steps back over the line, leaving the rifle dangling in position, as he reaches for more ammunition.

"You" he says, without looking at Ed once as he pulls out three more bullets. "Are one of the people who knew."

"Yeth" Ed says, fighting to keep his voice level. "I know. But I didn't _tell_ anyone." Underneath the indignation spiking every few moments up through his chest, something else surges too, a small flame being fanned at the thought of being one of the few people in the know, that it takes Ed a few moments to understand is _pride._

"I _didn't"_ he says, when there's no response from Cameron. "That article didn't say anything about the school that Nancy's going to. It didn't th-say anything at all. It reported a tweet that Fiona made. And I haven't told her. I haven't told her or Alastair _anything_ like that." Ed can hear his voice getting louder. "For God'th th-sake, Cameron."

Cameron just arches an eyebrow. Ed stares at him. "You know I didn't."

Cameron shrugs slightly. Ed stares back at him, a hard, angry feeling swelling in his chest that it takes him a few moments to realise is hurt.

"You know I wouldn't do that" he says, turning away suddenly. "I never talk about your kids. Ever."

Cameron squeezes the trigger. Even with his headphones on, the recoil makes Ed jump, as though he's the one holding the gun.

Then Cameron turns back to him slowly, resting the rifle back in its' stand. "All right."

Ed blinks. "All right?"

"Yeah."

Ed waits. "So you believe me?"

Cameron gives him a nod without looking at him.

Ed waits, fighting with the words, then forces himself to say it. "That'th why you th-said that. In there."

Cameron doesn't look at him.

"About the-" He feels his cheeks warm, traitorously. "The lectern."

Cameron's cheek twitches slightly, but Ed isn't sure if it's in a smile or not.

"You th-said. That you'd warn me. We promithed." He prays his voice doesn't crack. "We made a deal."

Cameron looks up at him then suddenly, blue eyes brighter in the slightly darkened room. Ed meets his gaze, and suddenly has a memory of those words breaking into their air between them, him and another David looking back at him.

Then Cameron speaks, his voice lacking a tone, but softer somehow. "Sorry."

Ed blinks. He opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out.

"I thought that you'd like Flynn's comment afterwards" Cameron teases, and Ed swallows. "I didn't know he was going to say it."

Cameron grins.

"I didn't!"

With a shrug, Cameron turns back to the rifle and somehow, not wanting his attention to move off him, Ed says "I never liked guns."

Cameron doesn't look at him, but his cheek twitches-it's definitely a smile this time. "I bet you didn't."

Ed shudders, but the strange stiffness between them is broken somehow, and he walks up to the line, standing a few centimetres away from Cameron. "I don't know how you can hold it like that."

For a moment, he thinks Cameron's going to shoot the rifle but then he stands up, turns back to Ed, stepping towards him. "I grew up with them" he tells him, with his easy Cameron grin. "When you grow up with them, you're used to them. There's nothing to be scared of-" He adjusts his headphones slightly, and Ed has the odd urge to reach out and run his fingers over the slightly balding spot in Cameron's hair. "If you handle them properly."

"I might have known you'd be a hunter." The words have a touch of asperity but are softer than Ed meant or knew he meant them to be.

Cameron does grin this time, one eye flickering shut in a wink. "Not a hunter. I hunt. Sometimes. There's a difference."

"Like when you get the woods cleared for your pigeon-shooting?"

"Something like that." Cameron gives him another wink. "Did that make your blood boil, Miliband?"

Ed looks away to hide his grin. "It's inhumane."

"Traditional."

"Is there a differenthe?"

Cameron laughs. "I'd think it's because you've never tried it."

"Obviouthly."

"Have a go." When Ed glances at him, Cameron steps back, gesturing to the rifle in front of him. "Go on. Have a try."

Ed stares at him. "Th-sometimes I wonder what planet you're living on."

"Go on." Cameron winks, stepping up to him. "It's not killing anything. It's a rifle range. They're going to turn it into an office soon anyway, it's not like you'll get many more chances."

"No."

"You can't say you hate something you've never tried." Cameron grins. "You can pretend the target's my face, if you like."

Ed shakes his head and looks away from him. "Don't th-say that."

"What?"

"Don't _th-say_ things like that." Ed bites his lip hard as he looks away from him. "Like I want you to get hurt."

"It was a joke, Miliband. I don't think you're about to walk into the Commons with an AK-47."

"Th-still." Ed looks away from him again, wondering at the sudden prickling behind his eyes. "I don't like thinking about it."

"Me getting hurt?"

Ed's eyes dart to Cameron's, then away again.

For a moment, Cameron doesn't say anything. Then, slowly, he steps towards Ed, until they're only an inch away from each other.

His hand brushes Ed's shoulder, then, his fingertip very softly touches his chin.

"You are-" Cameron almost laughs slightly, but stops at the last second. Then his eyes soften even more, along with his voice. "You're just....really sweet, aren't you?"

Ed's breath catches in his throat. Cameron's eyes flicker to his mouth, then, and Ed's sure, for a moment, he's going to tilt his head, that they're going to kiss.

"Try it?" Cameron asks, a hopeful note in his voice, and, as his fingers almost but not quite brush Ed's mouth, Ed closes his eyes, with the sensation of falling off a cliff inside his own chest.

He steps forward to the rifle, Cameron's hands falling away from him, and stops. "What do I-"

Cameron moves up behind him. "Here. You lift it-like-" He bends slightly, so that his hair's brushing Ed's neck. "The headphones are thick." His voice raises the hairs on Ed's neck. "I need to be close to you."

Ed's heart's hammering at three times its' normal speed. He nods, quickly, reflexively, praying his fingers don't shake.

"Here. I'll lift it. " Cameron lifts the rifle slowly. "Hold out your hands-here, I'll show you where to put them-"

Slowly, he takes one of Ed's hands, moves it to the end of the rifle. The warmth of his hand around Ed's is a small shock in his chest.

"And the other-"

He moves Ed's other hand to the trigger. Ed feels himself jerk slightly, recoiling at touching it.

"Don't worry." Cameron's voice brushes his neck. "The safety's on. I promise."

His body is against Ed's, cupping his back, his hands holding Ed's.

"I won't let go. Promise."

His mouth's almost against Ed's ear, the words stroking his skin.

"Look at the target."

Ed does. The rifle's far heavier than he expected-he can feel the weight, even with Cameron helping him to support it. His hands are shaking slightly, and he can't wonder if it's due to the weight of the gun.

"Narrow the aim. Look at where you want it to shoot."

It feels as though the gun's shaking with the pressure of how much the bullet wants to come out. Ed's thumb strokes it softly, almost unthinkingly, and it sends an odd thrill of something through him.

Cameron's voice must be loud, because Ed can hear it clearly through his headphones, but it feels like a whisper. "I'm going to take the safety off now, OK?"

Ed doesn't nod. He feels his lips move though but doesn't hear what they say.

The safety's moved off with a click.

"It'th pointing away from me, right?" Ed manages with a little rush of something like adrenaline.

He feels Cameron's chuckle vibrate through his spine. "Yes, Miliband." One hand braces Ed's back, very gently. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, don't worry."

The words open up something in Ed, something that sets his heart pounding. His fingers tremble.

"Go on" Cameron murmurs, everything seeming to tighten in Ed's body at his closeness. "Pull the trigger. It's OK."

Ed holds the rifle a moment longer, his body taut and tense and aware only of his finger on the trigger, of Cameron's chin on his shoulder, his breath on his skin, his heart beating against Ed's back, through his body, almost against Ed's own.

Then his finger squeezes.

The bang is immediate-it rocks through the air, sending Ed's thoughts into a jump. The recoil jerks both of their bodies, pressing him up against Cameron for a long, dizzying moment of heat and heartbeats and breath.

"Wow" he hears one of them say, and isn't sure which one. His own heart is beating a tattoo against his ribs, and as Cameron lowers the rifle back into place, Ed hears himself laugh a little, wildly, the odd release sending deep breaths of air into his lungs, his arms trembling as he lowers them.

"There you go." Cameron seems to press his face into Ed's hair for a moment before he lets go of him. "Now you've fired a gun."

"A-a rifle" Ed feels the need to correct him, stepping back from the gun, hoping his legs still hold him up.

"Well, yeah." Cameron raises an eyebrow. "Still fired one, though."

Ed feels himself blush furiously, for some stupid reason, the heat spreading up his entire face, making him tremble.

Cameron grins slowly, making something melt in Ed's chest. "You didn't get too far off centre, too."

Ed's lips tremble. "I got one line off mithing the target altogether."

Cameron shrugs. "Well, it was your first time."

Ed hears himself laugh, the sound a little high-pitched.

"There you go." Cameron tugs at his headphones gently, letting one finger tickle under Ed's chin. "Plus. You ever worn headphones like that before?"

Ed tries to think. "No-"

Cameron's grin dents his cheeks, making his blue eyes glint. "Good. They suit you too much."

Ed opens his mouth to say something, anything, and then Cameron's mouth's tilting closer, their noses brushing, and Ed closes his eyes with a little sigh of supplication, as Cameron tilts his mouth into Ed's, feels Cameron's back relax under his hands, both of them melting into a long, warm kiss.

Cameron's tongue is gentle in his mouth this time, exploring slowly. Ed's mouth opens, letting him, inviting him in further, the final tension melting out of his spine as Cameron's hand presses him closer, their noses brushing as their lips part.

"Th-CCTV-" Ed manages in a murmur.

Cameron's laugh breaks against his mouth, sending vibrations through him. "What do you think was the first thing I checked, Miliband?"

The thought that Cameron was planning on this-even when he was furious with him, was planning on this-does something to Ed, sends a current of something through him, and he can't tell if it's bad or good, but it curls his fingers into Cameron's hair, presses his body against his, opens his mouth again and they're kissing, long and soft this time.

Each of their kisses is slow and deep, not pushing for anything more, but somehow slower, more certain and more trembling than their previous kisses too. Cameron's lips are so soft. Ed's sure he's noticed before but he's noticing even more now, each press of them into his own. His tongue teases the tip of Ed's own, strokes the insides of his mouth.

When they break apart, foreheads pressed together, panting, Cameron murmurs, the words teasing Ed's lips, "Practice and you'll get even better."

Ed isn't sure which he means, but, on an instinct, he presses his own mouth into Cameron's again and again, fumbling into another, open-mouthed kiss, his insides melting as their tongues touch and Cameron's hands press into his back, pressing their bodies into each other, so that for a moment they could be melted together.

* * *

"What?" Alastair snatches up his phone from the side of the treadmill, without breaking out of his jog.

"Charming call, dearest."

"What do you want?"

"I don't think _you_ should be the one asking the questions, darling."

Alastair glances at the phone. _"You_ called _me."_

"And with good reason." Peter tuts softly.

Alastair waits for several seconds, then says "Give me a clue, Peter."

"Alastair, I know you're willing to throw your own neck on the block for a cause, but I do think throwing Cameron's daughter is a little harsh, even in an attempt to get Eddie into Number 10."

Alastair stares at the phone. "What?"

"The Spectator got hold of Fiona's tweet this morning."

"OK, _now_ you're just talking bollocks. Fiona didn't make any fucking tweet."

"Are you claiming that your partner does not bear the name of one Ms Fiona Millar?"

"Well, yeah." Alastair hits one of the buttons to slow the machine slightly. "But she didn't say anything about a fucking tweet. What are you on about?"

"Hang up the phone. Then call me back."

Alastair doesn't get the chance to hang up, because Peter does it for him.

He also doesn't get the chance to turn the phone off and pretend Peter doesn't exist, because the phone immediately beeps with a message.

Alastair opens it, clicks the link, and within two minutes Peter's picking up the phone again. "I might have been heading out, darling."

"Shut up, you called me." Alastair swears again, thumping the handle of the treadmill, still pacing. "I didn't fucking know she'd tweeted that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Peter. I'm fucking sure."

"You can see why we'd be suspicious-"

"I don't go after fucking kids."

Peter clears his throat.

"It was completely fucking different with Major's, they were adults."

"IDS?"

"He'd sent his kid to fucking Eton. And they were fucking older."

"You weren't that thrilled with Euan, though."

"For God's sake, I didn't put anything in the fucking press about Euan."

"Because he was Tony's kid. You have a certain distaste for rich children, Alastair."

"Euan wasn't a posh kid."

"If he wasn't Tony's, would you have thought that?"

Alastair is silent, fuming.

"You can see why" Peter says, letting out a little tut.

Alastair hangs up the phone. He pushes the treadmill to its' highest speed, striding harder, faster, the familiar, hot anger gripping through his chest with each pound of his heart.

* * *

"Give me a rawr."

Mark, the headteacher, is crouched down in front of them holding a camera, even though Aaron isn't dressed as a skeleton.

Daniel doesn't really feel like it, but Mark hasn't been mean to him or anything, so he does a "grrr."

"Ah, that wasn't a rawr-" Mark turns to Aaron. "Shall we take another picture? Do a rawr together?"

Daniel hugs himself a little tighter in his skeleton costume. Usually, they all have to wear coats in the playground, but because it's World Book Day, Jen said they didn't have to. It was fun at first, but now Daniel's feeling cold, and he doesn't even know which skeleton he's supposed to be.

Daniel knows Mummy knew about World Book Day, because he told her at least four times, and Zia as well, but Zia said Mummy would take care of it, but yesterday Mummy just handed him the skeleton costume and smiled like she expected him to be really happy with it.

"I don't know what book it's from" Daniel had said, and Mummy's face had gone all strange, like it does when she's still smiling but her eyes have gone sad and frowny. Or just empty and cold, like there's nobody there.

She'd said something about how there were lots of books with skeletons in, and then said that Daddy had a book about humans' bodies somewhere, and Daniel could be the skeleton from that, but Daniel didn't _want_ to be the skeleton from that, he wanted to be an Octonaut, and if Sam was being Fireman Sam, he didn't know why he couldn't be an Octonaut, but Mummy just rolled her eyes and said something about how a skeleton would be more grown-up than an Octonaut anyway, but Daniel doesn't want to be grown-up, and he'd wished Zia would take them to school instead.

Aaron takes Daniel's hand and rawrs at Mark. Daniel isn't actually sure what Aaron's costume is but it's something he wants to be. Daniel doesn't know because Daniel decided not to say anything for as long as possible when he got to school today, and Mummy tried kissing his cheek but it was hard and almost hurt.

"OK, Daniel, can we have a rawr?"

Aaron beams at him, big dark eyes glimmering over chunky cheeks. _"Rawr-"_

Daniel lifts his hands and roars at the camera. He wishes he could make his voice louder, but he's too little.

* * *

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" Alastair kicks the couch as he walks past it.

Fiona, sitting in the corner of the couch, rolls her eyes with an audible sigh. Alastair wants to smash something. He wants to grab the laptop in her lap and throw it across the room.

"I was tweeting in the context of an education campaigner. It had absolutely nothing to do with you-"

_"Bullshit._ You knew it had fucking everything to do with me."

"I didn't even mention her by name."

"You fucking went for Cameron's _kid."_ Alastair picks up a cushion and throws it across the room. Grace, who's come home from college early and walked into the middle of a screaming row, flinches from where she's curled up on the couch.

"I did not go for her, I went for her parents-and even then, I was going for the hypocrisy-"

"It's _not fucking hypocrisy!"_ Alastair whirls round, one hand knotting in his hair. "For fuck's sake, Cameron's fucking _careful_ with this shit! He never said he wouldn't send his kids to a fucking _private school_ , he said he'd-"

"He said he'd _use state-"_

_"He said he'd prefer to use state."_ Alastair picks up the cushion and throws it again, this time hitting the TV. "He said he'd _prefer_ to use fucking state, not that he'd _only_ use fucking state-he's fucking _clever_ , and we don't go for anyone's fucking _kids_ -do you have any fucking idea how fucking _low_ this makes us look, for Christ's sake-"

"Oh, for God's _sake."_ Fiona rolls her eyes. "We didn't even mention her by _name_ -it was a commentary on the way politicians are happy to use the private sector for their own kids but-"

"It doesn't matter that you didn't fucking mention her by name!" Alastair picks up the mug that was sitting on the coffee table and he hurls it without thinking twice. It bounces off the couch , rolling across the carpet. Grace jumps, askance. "Dad-"

"It doesn't matter that you didn't fucking mention her by name-you've brought Cameron's _kids_ into it, and it's something no one fucking _does-"_

"If you're going to tell me I can't commentate on where politicians send their kids to school-"

"That's the fucking _point."_ Alastair moves to the window, turning his back on her, taking deep breaths, trying to sink his fingers into and force down the anger that's rearing in his chest, wanting to seize something, punch it into a wall, feel it smash under his skin. "You keep it non-specific. You don't fucking bring an-an _eleven-year-old_ into it-"

Fiona folds her arms, eyes narrowing. "You didn't have that problem when it was Euan."

Alastair spins round. "Don't fucking give me that shit. I never briefed to the press about Euan. I told Tony and Cherie it would be better to send him somewhere else, I never went behind their backs to the fucking press-I fucking _defended_ them to the fucking journalists, even when it fucked me over-"

"You're not briefing for Cameron's kids, you're briefing against him-"

"That's not the fucking _point."_ Alastair's breathing hard. "You don't bring fucking _kids_ into it. For fuck's _sake."_

Fiona shrugs. "It's bringing her parents into it, not her. It's perfectly pertinent when parents ignore their local state school-"

"For fuck's _sake-"_ Alastair kicks the coffee table. "This isn't part of one of your fucking _campaigns_ -this has fucking dragged us into the shit, it's you and fucking Neil all over again-"

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Alastair wheels round. "Back in fucking France-it's been like this since I started working for fucking Tony, whenever you could hijack the whole fucking thing-"

"Oh, piss off, Alastair." Fiona stares at him, almost laughing. "You actually think I was-what-clinging on to the edges of you so that I could grab some _initiative-"_

"No, I think you were fucking selfish and you just saw a chance to push your own fucking agenda in-"

"Oh, shut up, Alastair." Fiona turns away from him. "You're the one who used to go on about exactly the same stuff, until it wasn't good for Tony's agenda."

_"Mum-"_

"Oh, fuck off-"

"Just because what was good for Tony became more important than your principles for you doesn't mean it did for the rest of us."

Alastair picks up the mug and throws it against the wall.

_"Dad!"_

The mug shatters against the wall, at the exact moment Grace leaps away from the couch, shards of ceramic clay flying out in an arch. Several fall onto the cushions of the couch, exactly where she'd been sitting three seconds before.

Alastair throws his fist into the wall, teeth grinding together at the jolt of pain. "Fuck-"

"Get out." Fiona's upright now, her arm around Grace's shoulders, hand in her hair, shielding their daughter. "Get out. You could have cut her, get _out."_

"I'm fucking going." Alastair barely manages to grab his keys as he storms to the front door. "I'm going."

The door slams behind him, the house shaking as hard as the sudden trembling in his chest, the prickling of tears in his eyes. When he opens his palm around the keys, bright blood beads to the surface, and he stares at the crimson dewdrop, not feeling any pain at all.

* * *

David waits until they're in the kitchen, Nancy and Elwen sitting at the table, doing their homework, to hook his chin over Sam's shoulders, hugging her from behind.

"What is it?" she asks quietly, her eyes resting on the kids at the table, as Nancy shakes loose her ponytail.

David waits a moment before he says "It wasn't him."

"What wasn't?"

"Miliband" David says, even though he already knows she knows who he means. "It wasn't him who gave them that. About Nancy. He didn't even know about it."

Sam's silent for a moment, "You're sure-"

"I'm sure." David doesn't even have to let her finish. Then, "I still took him apart though."

Sam doesn't have to ask. "You wish you hadn't."

"I didn't ask him until after PMQs." David rests his forehead on her shoulder. "I fucking went for him in PMQs."

"Isn't that what usually happens?"

"I just-made it-" David shakes his head, tightens his arms around her waist. "Why are you OK with this?" he asks, voice a whisper against her neck, and Sam doesn't have to ask.

She turns round in the circle of his arms, her fringe brushing his chin. "I'm not" she says simply.

Something breaks in David's chest.

"I-" He swallows, trying to push back the sudden ominous rise of something prickling and hot in his chest. "I-all right. I-all right-I can-"

Sam shakes her head suddenly. "No, Dave, no-" She lets her head fall against his chest. "No, not like that. It's just-I don't know if you can be all right with something like this."

David's hand tightens in her hair. "Then what-" He manages to keep his voice low, keeping his gaze trained on the children, still in their costumes, to keep the liquid trembling in his eyes from spilling down his cheeks. "Why are you-"

Sam looks up at him, then. "Because you're not, either" she says, and then she presses her face into his chest, so that all David can do is bury his face in her hair and hold her to him, as though they can hide in each other, even standing in their kitchen with their children sitting across the room, still pretending to be other people.

* * *

Alastair's standing by the window, looking out, after pacing around the room while telling David everything that happened. David, who'd acted as though one of his patients ringing asking to turn up at his house in five minutes were a perfectly normal occurrence, didn't interrupt him once, and now is just sitting quietly in his chair, watching him, occasionally making a note in his folder.

"You've been angry with Fiona for things like this before" he says, after a while.

"Well, yeah." Alastair turns round and heads back to the couch. "I mean, when it's affected the job I've got to do, of course you get fucking angry. It's her hijacking something for her own fucking agenda."

"Even if you agree with it?"

"I don't agree with everything she does. I mean, that fucking-meetings about how academies were fucking everything up, when we brought them in, the Compass events, it was basically her fucking over everything we did in government-"

"I remember. But that was a long time ago."

"I know, I'm just fucking illustrating the point." Alastair feels his fists clench, forces his fingers to unfold on his thighs. "She's always fucking done this."

"But it's never escalated to something like this before."

"Well, we've had some pretty serious fucking fights about it, if that's what you mean."

"But this seems to have particularly wound you up." David leans back.

Alastair feels his jaw tense. "Well, it just happened."

"I was interested that it seems to have annoyed you that it was targeted at children." David taps his pen. "Specifically at-well, at a specific child."

Alastair shrugs. "Well, yeah. We don't go for fucking _kids._ That's just an-it's an unspoken fucking rule, for everyone. No one goes for kids. And she's gone and fucking broken it. Even fucking Labour are going to be going nuts. It makes us look pretty bloody petty, and then she's got the fucking nerve to go on about _me_ betraying fucking principles because she knows that'll wind me up-"

"See, that bit is what I was thinking about." David leans forward. "So you're angry because it singled out a child?"

"Yeah."

"Even your-well, for lack of a better word, your opponent's child?"

"She's still a fucking kid. So yeah."

"But you're also angry because of what Fiona said to you in the argument?" David clicks his pen lid up and down. "The thing about you selling out your principles?"

"She didn't say selling out." Alastair's voice is louder than he realises. "She said I-screwed them over, fucked them over, something like that, I can't really remember."

"But that irritated you?"

Alastair snorts. "Wouldn't it fucking irritate you?"

David shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not opposed to private education."

"You should be."

David raises an eyebrow. "And yet you're annoyed at Fiona for exactly the same thing."

"I'm not annoyed at her for that. I'm annoyed at her for trying to fucking-shove her agenda into something that could stop us fucking winning, for God's sake. And for bringing fucking kids into it. Not for being against them."

"And for saying you're going against that."

"Yeah." Alastair spreads his hands. "I hate private schools. Everyone _knows_ I fucking hate private schools. She doesn't get to say I don't hate them because I didn't drag Cameron's kid into it, for God's sake."

David taps the pen on his chin. "Have you thought about when you started hating private schools?"

Alastair shrugs. "Probably when I went to Cambridge. Every other kid there was from fucking Eton or Harrow or some day school."

"And you weren't?"

"No, City Of Leicester."

"Grammar?"

"Yeah. Which I'm against, I know, I-but yeah. Around then."

"Have you ever taken your kids back to where you grew up?"

Alastair blinks. "Couple of times, yeah."

"Is there any comparison?"

"What?"

"I mean, between how you grew up and how they grew up." David leans back. "Or the job you ended up doing. I mean, would you have thought growing up that you'd end up with the kind of jobs you've had?"

Alastair snorts. "Well, no, of course not. No one would."

David raises an eyebrow. "Even private school kids?"

"Well, that's the point." Alastair spreads his hands. "They've got more opportunities-they've got more-entitlement or self-confidence or whatever you want to call it-so of course, they'd think of it more-"

"So they'd-essentially, you've got the sort of job-you're in the sort of position that they could want to grow up to be in." David raises an eyebrow. "You've grown into the sort of person those people would want to be."

"Yeah, but through bloody _hard work_ , not through just-using Daddy's millions or whatever fucking _diddums_ that-"

"But-" David arches an eyebrow. "In a way-you're the person you'd have thought they'd grow up to be."

Alastair shrugs. "Well, yeah."

"So-" David taps his pen. "Aren't you, in a way, a person you'd have hated? At one time?"

"No, I haven't."

David just looks at him.

Alastair shrugs. "I haven't."

David just looks back. "OK" is all he says.

Alastair falls silent, staring over his hands as he wraps them meditatively under his chin. David sits quietly, happy to let them sit in silence. The clock ticks the minutes by in silence. It's several minutes before either of them speaks again.

* * *

"I just found it interesting-" Peter's voice is thin, injured, climbing into a faint, plaintive note. "How you didn't see fit to tell me."

Tony laughs, lightly, sunnily. "Only because I'd have thought Alastair would have told you." The words sound gentle, almost teasing: _Aren't you silly?_

"Didn't he?"

Peter's tone is almost sulky, but not quite. "Why else would I be asking you?"

"Why else would you?" Tony's tone is teasing now. "Come on, Peter. Are you really saying you thought I kept it secret from you?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

Tony rolls his eyes. Across the room, Cherie, who's sitting on the couch reading, lowers her newspaper, watching him quietly, even as Tony gives her a quick grin.

"Peter." His tone is fond, warning. "We're not in the 1990s now."

Cherie's gaze rests on him.

"I don't think we need to be, do we?" Peter's voice is cool, and Tony lets his grin soak into his words, tickle them a little.

"Peter. It was me and Gordon. You know how that is."

The silence rings back at him. Tony can almost feel the confused hurt reverberate through Peter's chest, achingly loud in it's silence, and softens his voice slightly.

"You could always have asked Gordon" he suggests, quietly, teasingly.

Peter laughs very softly. "I could have."

"Don't tell me you don't like him again." Tony's tone is admonishing, almost a teacher rebuking his favourite pupil.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Peter affects an injured tone, which makes Tony laugh without planning to. "I've always been the greatest admirer of Gordon."

"Maybe a little too much?"

The words are light, teasing, but Tony almost feels them tingle in the air as they reach Peter, feel the way they'll have caught in his chest, snagging his thoughts. Across the room, Cherie's just watching him now, abandoning any pretence of reading the newspaper.

"I suppose" Peter says, and Tony doesn't know if the sadness clinging to the words aches in his own chest or not. "I'd better ask Gordon."

"That's what I'd suggest. If he picks up the phone."

He gives Cherie another sunny smile, as he hears Peter manage a laugh on the other end, tries to decide if he's faking it or not. Cherie, as she watches Tony, who's spread out, one arm along the back of the couch, as though tempting several invisible people into his embrace, thinks suddenly of a large, rather cheerful spider, contemplating its' dinner later that evening-not particularly hungry now, just looking forward with a sort of idle intrigue to the slow devouring later.

"I'll let you get back to your evening" Peter says, and a few moments later, Tony's saying "See you soon, Peter" with as much enthusiasm as he's ever used, and then he's lowering the phone, grin still playing at his mouth.

He glances at Cherie across the room, noticing her gaze hasn't moved. "What?"

Cherie gets up and crosses the room to him, casually, as though he never asked the question. Tony watches until, causing the first flicker of surprise to cross his face, she bends down, and takes his face between her hands. Her thumb moves over one cheek as she kisses him once, hard and long and almost, when they break apart, Tony thinks, almost leaving a bruise, as though her fist smashed its' way into his mouth instead of her own.

"You can be cruel sometimes, darling" is all she says, without looking away from him once, and then she leaves the room without looking back, leaving Tony alone.

* * *

When Alastair lets himself into the house, it's late, the streetlights glowing orange outside, and he finds the living room deserted, as he'd expected to. Grace is in the kitchen though, munching a pain au chocolat, and flicking through her phone.

She glances up at him briefly, not saying anything. Alastair looks at her.

"Gracie" he says, and his voice is soft and oddly full, as though any moment it might spill over.

Grace turns and looks up at him, then. Beneath the mess of curls, Alastair can still see the same big eyes that used to look up at him when she'd have to reach up to take his hand when she was tiny, only just half-toddling along the roads of Puymeras, holding to his side.

Alastair bends down and hugs her, breathing in the scent of her, one hand in her curls. Grace hesitates for half a second before she leans back into his chest, huddles into him.

"Did you see David?" she asks, and Alastair nods briefly, presses a soft kiss into her hair. Grace leans back into him, lets him hold her in the chair.

"Did I hurt you?" It takes him a moment to understand the words have come from him.

Grace turns and looks up at him, then, eyes blinking slightly, almost an intake of breath, and for a moment, Alastair's seeing her curled up next to him in a cottage in France, clinging to him as the minutes tick down to the car arriving, her eyes big and huge and shaking, as though by sheer force of will she could make him stay.

And then she says, voice just more than a breath, "No, Dad, you didn't hurt me" and she leans into his chest and lets him hold her properly, almost without realising she hadn't yet let him do that.

Alastair holds her. He breathes properly for the first time in minutes, and holds her.

* * *

David's in the shower when his thoughts drift to Miliband again.

It had been a different kind of kissing today. Similar to the hotel room on Monday, if David's honest with himself. Gentler. Almost like a conversation of its' own, with no expectations of anything more.

But just because there weren't expectations-

David shifts uncomfortably before remembering where he is-alone, under a jet of hot water, with soapsuds softening and slickening his skin, for God's sake, and if he can't think about Miliband like this now-

It's not as though he'd ever-

But Miliband had given him that hint of the goofy, crooked smile he sometimes wears, even below those dark eyes narrowing slightly, as though still waiting for the other shoe to drop, and something about that just-

David's hand moves down, brushes his erection, and he lets out a little moan which escapes against his fingers.

It's not as though it's the first time he's thought about Miliband like this.

Honestly, once they started this-

_(This. This_ has always been a nothing word to David. Now, it's anything but.)

(Now, it's a fucking everything word, if anything.)

(God, has it always seemed so fucking bulging with meaning, like the briefest whisper of a secret that promises to unfold more and more and more?)

_(This.)_

But once they started this, he was almost relieved. At least then, thinking about Miliband in the shower was normal. Only natural. Just his body, working things out.

It helped that he usually only thought about Miliband's kissing, or picturing him across the dispatch box, or both together. That was usually enough to get him to a good, shuddering orgasm that left him appropriately trembly-kneed and hot-cheeked.

And while he might have let his thoughts roam to Miliband's smile or those little sounds he makes in the back of his throat when they're kissing-David remembers the ones he made today, feels them catch in his own chest, send a small shiver of arousal down to his cock, a small, frantic _uh_ sound coming out of his own throat-for some reason, he's never actually let his thoughts move further down than that.

(Not whilst in the shower, anyway.)

And in theory-David gives himself a good, long, aching stroke-ahhhh, right _theeerre_ -in theory, there shouldn't have been anything today that would have made him-they were in a _rifle range_ , for God's sake, they might have been tamer than they've been at other moments, if anything-something _about_ it-

Maybe it was the holding Miliband against his own body, the jut of his hips almost bruising against David's.

Maybe it was the sudden, undeniable delight that had crumpled Miliband's face after that first shot had shuddered out of that rifle, the complete abandon with which it had wreathed his mouth and eyes, squeezing David's heart in his chest until he thought he'd moan himself-

But. He's thinking. Remembering.

It's not as though there's anything wrong with it. Just thinking. They're not going to go further.

David strokes his cock a little more slowly. It's as though his thoughts keep wandering down to the rest of Miliband's body, and then jumping back. Nervously. As though the thoughts bite him.

Easy. Easy.

Just picture..Miliband's...chest-

Just his-

David tries picturing Miliband shirtless. Perhaps lying on a bed-maybe just taking off a shirt at the end of the day. In that hotel room. How had he looked? Had his chest been hairless, like David's, through some freak of nature?

No, he's seen Miliband's hair. He'd have a bit.

For some reason, the thought of Miliband's chest hair-Miliband having _chest hair-_ an odd laugh breaks out of David's mouth. And then he's suddenly so hard his hand quickens of his own accord.

OK.

Mmmm-

Yes, that image is quite-

He thinks about that little trail of hair that leads down from his own stomach, perfect for kissing your way lower, and the room almost spins.

Oh God, if Miliband has that _trail-_

He can almost feel his finger stroking it.

David's mouth opens and then he hears it, a real, long, loud, pornstar-type _groan_ comes out of his throat, dredged up from the image of the moment before his finger touches Miliband's-Miliband's-

David's panting now. He needs-he needs-ooooh- _oooohhhhhh-"-ooohhh_ , M-Miliband-f-fuck- _f-fuck,_ yeah, right there-"

He's picturing it. Miliband's-

God.

Miliband's cock-

What would it look like? Is it-

David feels a bizarre urge to laugh, but he can't, he's too hard, and his hand's stroking blissfully and all his muscles are getting tighter and tighter and it feels so, so good-oh, Jesus, he....needs...

"Ooooh." He tries to muffle the moan against his fingers, but it's almost no use. _"Ooooh._ Ooooh, yeah, yeah, Mili, like that-"

He doesn't know if he's begging Miliband in his head-if it's Miliband's imaginary hand, building a slow, swelling orgasm inside him that David knows is going to take him somewhere pretty much guaranteed to get a scream out of him.

But he's thinking about it now. His cock. Oh, he's thinking about it.

And that-that alone, just the image of it, hard and trembling and-God, is he big, _does David think he's big, fuck, what the hell would Freud say to that-_ but oh God, he's picturing stroking it once, and seeing Miliband's head fall back and his lips purse around that wonderful, soft, sighing supplication of pleasure, and David hears himself grunt hard, as an aching note of pleasure pulls tight in his body- _"Uhhh_ -uhhh, _yeah_ , Ed-Ed, _f-fuck_ , I'm going to-"

And he's picturing Miliband's hand wrapped around him now, those long slender perfect fingers and David's bucking and whimpering and-oh-yeah-please-please-please-oh-

"Ed.... _Ed....Ed-"_

One thumb-

David sees Ed's big brown eyes looking at him with that crooked, smug grin.

His thumb swipes just the right spot.

Pleasure explodes down David's cock. That's the only way to describe it. Literally explodes, and David's hand falls away from his mouth, and he lets it out, one big long proper _oh-God-that-is-being-fucked_ pornstar _moan_ that ends in a _"Ohhhhhhh-"_ as that pleasure swells, pulls tight, and then explodes outwards into long ripples of pleasure through his whole body, in a long, unravelling, unfolding orgasm-and then David's thoughts are gone and all he can see is Ed's face and cock and hands, and all he can hear is his own voice- _fuck-fuck-yesyesyesyesyesohhhhohhhGodyeahohhhhhhEdMiliEdEdEd-ohhhh...Eddd....ohh..._

The last ripple shakes his body and David nearly blacks out.

When he manages to open his eyes, he's sinking slowly down the wall. His knees have decided to forget trembling. They've gone straight to giving way. And it feels good.

_"Ohh....."_ David can't stop himself from making the sound, from the stupid grin that leaves his head tilted back against the wall, his body quivering with little aftershocks.

_"Ohhh_ , Mili-"

He catches himself. No. No nicknames.

This-this is bad enough without-

It's just a shower. Just-it doesn't _mean_ anything.

David tells himself that, as the water washes away any evidence of it, and goosebumps prickle on his shoulders, until he's completely soft and the water's turned from hot to cold.

It's just a shower.

* * *

It's her birthday, she thinks, as her hand closes around her phone before she even opens her eyes. She's seventeen, and her eyes flicker to her phone, thumb already scrolling, as though it's a part of her hand, the screen blurry through her early-morning vision.

The sea of _happy birthdays!_ make her smile as she looks at her followers. There are too many notifications to read them all, as she settles down beneath her Marvel poster, pulling a pillow behind her to read through them. She can forget about going to college later for a bit, as she pulls the duvet around her. She's not sure if anyone there knows it's her birthday, apart from her friends. The other day, it took someone a couple of tries to remember her name.

She shakes her head, as though shaking the memory away, and refreshes the page almost defiantly. She stays like that for a while, refreshing over and over with a press of her thumb, letting her followers' messages drown out the silence.

* * *

"So, you don't need to-if there's any moment you want to stop-" Tom gives him a questioning look. "Just give us a signal and we can take it out?"

George manages to shake his head. "It's fine."

Andrew had already walked out of his own gentle grilling earlier, looking a little bedraggled. George had sat there in tactful silence for a while before asking "What was it like?"

Andrew's shoulders had risen and fallen. "Not difficult. But-it's still talking about it, isn't it."

"Dave's comfortable with it."

Andrew had eyed him for a long moment. "I don't know if he's comfortable as much as-"

"He has to be" George had finished, without Andrew needing to. "Exactly."

"I mean-" Tom glances at the cameras. "The cameras are going and-if you want to stop at all, it's completely fine."

George nods, wraps his hands together.

"OK, can I just ask-" Tom gestures slightly, brings his own hands together. "Did you go to Ivan's funeral?"

George nods, feeling his lips tighten slightly. "Yes, I did-"

"You're-godfather to two of his children-"

"Yes-"

"Yeah-"

"And he is to one of mine, so-" George takes a deep breath. "I mean, I'm a-I'm a parent myself-"

"Hmmm-"

"It's unimaginable, the-the grief that he went through-and Samantha went through-"

_Liberty had tugged at his shirt as she sat on his knee in the church, dark head nestled under his chin. "Is Ive in the ground yet?" she'd whispered, when George had ducked his head down to put his ear to her mouth._

_"Um-" He'd pulled Liberty further into his chest, to press a kiss to her temple. "No-no, Ivan's in heaven, sweetheart. Remember, Ivan's body's in the coffin but Ivan's soul's gone up to heaven, remember?"_

_Liberty had sucked at her thumb. "But what's-happening-in the coffin-"_

_"What's happening in the coffin?" George had kissed her head, taking a deep breath as Liberty nestled comfortably into his knee. "Well, the coffin's going to go into the ground so there's somewhere for us to visit Ivan's body." He'd given her another kiss._

_"Is there-are there going to be cakes?" Liberty had said, her voice rising a little, and George had shushed her. "No, there's not going to be cakes."_

_He'd pulled Liberty further into his lap, kissing her head. "Shhh, be a good girl-"_

_He'd glanced at Michael further down the bench, who'd been gently restraining Bea next to him, who'd been wriggling. Sarah had been holding William on her knee, kissing his forehead in between wiping at her mascara. George had known that both of them were getting ready for being called to the back, to get ready, and he'd taken a deeper breath, breathing in Liberty's hair._

_David and Samantha were sitting at the front, Samantha's head buried in David's shoulder. George knew he was doing what most of the others in the church were doing-looking at them, then looking away, feeling as though they were being caught out. Nancy had been curled into David's lap in her little dress, but Elwen, tucked under his arm, had been glancing about, and, when he saw George, had let out a delighted burble, pumping his hand in an eager little wave._

"And-and that funeral was one of the saddest things I've ever been to" George manages to say, and then he looks away, not hearing when Tom tells the cameras to stop.

* * *

Harry went to the same school as David, went to the same university as David, and has lost his hair far more quickly. He's also his cousin.

"So you're not going to light up during the interview, are you?"

David arches an eyebrow. "Not unless you're offering."

Harry gives him a grin over his Macbook. "Nah. I don't fancy getting you stoned when you're meant to be running the country."

"Do you remember at your sixteenth birthday party?" David pokes his fork into his M&S salad. "You had your party at our house."

"Yeah. And you chucked me in your pool stoned."

David shrugs. "That the opening line?"

Harry's done profiles of him before-it had actually been Sam suggesting it during the last election, when she'd pointed out that it wasn't much use having a cousin as a journalist and not taking advantage of it. So he's pretty sure that Harry's piece will be pretty safe.

"So we're not going to go on about Eton in this one-"

"Depends. Did you go on about that in the last one?"

"Who remembers?"

"You wrote it."

"Exactly."

Harry's always been easy to talk to. Easy to lend cigarettes, to sneak pot to at his sixteenth birthday. Easy to let tag along after him. David's never had a younger brother, so Harry is the closest he's got.

"Well, we're mixing personal and political-" Harry taps his keyboard once. "So we're basically mixing family anecdotes with why Miliband's mansion tax is a pipe dream."

David manages not to flinch at Miliband's name.

And really, it's slightly easier to laugh than it should be, because at least Harry hasn't met Miliband.

He doesn't know or suspect. To him, Miliband's just David's opponent. Nothing more, nothing less.

The idea's soothing. Like closing his eyes for a nap while he's campaigning, on the train or a flight. He knows it's just for a short while, that soon he'll be sinking back into the melee and the noise, but for now, it feels cool and dark and like a balm round his brain.

It reminds him of Harry's sixteenth birthday party, lounging round the pool at the Rectory, a few of his friends around him, Dom draped across the deckchair next to him, Harry sitting in front of them, feet dangling in the water, Harry casting glances back over his shoulder at them, as though daring himself to inch closer, the way David used to do with Alex and his friends. He'd fire back comments to their conversation and David, filled with the good-natured generosity of feeling older and superior, had taken them, spinning them into stories, and his friends had followed his lead. Plus, there'd been the fact that Harry had been at Westminster-Etonians regarded Westminster with a mixture of suspicion, pity and mild intrigue. They wouldn't have been jealous. You wouldn't allow yourself to be jealous. But you were allowed a little interest.

And it had been then that Harry had said, in much the same tone as he'd referred to Miliband's mansion tax as a pipe dream just now, "Two of them nearly got chucked out last year."

"Two what?" David had been lighting a cigarette.

"Queers."

"What, for being queer?" Dom had nicked the cigarette from him.

"Bit much, isn't it?" James had commented-unlike the rest of them, he'd been slumped in a deckchair upside down, regarding the pool from an alternative angle.

"No, not for being it-for like-" Harry had made a gesture that looked like the circle of a finger and thumb. "For doing it."

"Oh, _fuck."_ Dom had nearly spat out the cigarette smoke. "In the fucking dorm room?"

"Nah. I mean, bedroom, but they're singles." Same as Eton, David had known his cousin had thought, but hadn't said.

They'd been twenty-one then, at Oxford and older and able to affect a little more maturity, so James had said "Not that there's anything wrong with it-"

"Yeah, obviously-" Giles had looked up for the first time, taking a drag off his own cigarette-David wouldn't be able to look at that memory of Giles smoking for a while after the events of the next year without wincing. "But, like, you'd get chucked out for taking a girl up there too."

"Yeah, I know, but-"

"Yeah, I don't think they got chucked out-" Harry had been turned back towards them, dangling off the edge of the pool, as though trusting them not to push him in, but not quite letting himself believe that he trusted them. "They didn't actually get chucked out, they just got-"

"Like being gated?"

"Yeah." Westminster pupils knew Etonians' terms-Etonians didn't need to bother knowing Westminster's.

"Fuck." David, looking up from his own joint, had caught sight of the light from the house reflecting off James' glasses, as James had glanced at him, gaze oddly steady in spite of the pot.

David had looked away, and, aware of Harry's gaze on him, all the more hopeful for trying not to be, David had tossed him a grin and said, knowing the words would cement him as someone they could joke with-someone in the circle, not tugging the fringes towards them "Weren't one of them, were you?"

The laughter had broken out around them, including from Harry, and David had felt the same sensation he feels now, as he glances up at Harry-the easy feeling of sinking into an oasis in a desert, the knowledge that whatever he is elsewhere, he can be something else here-as he says "I think Miliband himself is a pipe dream, isn't he?"

* * *

"Yeah-" It's when he sees the kitchen island that Tom shakes his head. "We can't film down here."

Justine had been fairly sure they wouldn't, even if it is the kitchen where the children usually eat. Tom had winced when he heard the words "kitchen island" and now, she manages to smile, forces herself to drop her arms to the side where she's been automatically crossing them against her chest, as though bracing herself for a blow. "OK-"

"It'll have to be the one upstairs-" Tom gives Zia, who had been eating her lunch when Justine had knocked to ask if she'd mind if Tom came and had a look round her kitchen, a grin. "Really sorry about that, Zia-"

Zia gives him a wan smile as she heads back to the rejected kitchen island. Justine makes sure to give her a wider grin as she turns to the door. "Enjoy your lunch."

Zia smiles back, but only briefly.

"Now-" Tom says, as they head up the stairs, Justine pulling the door shut behind them. "We need to decide what everyone's wearing for the interview-"

"Right, OK-"

"Rachel can pick some stuff out with you, if you're OK with having her over on-Sunday, I think Ed said would be good-"

"Yeah, Sunday afternoon should be fine, we-we were going to explain to the boys then, actually, but we can reschedule that-"

Tom gives her a slightly odd look, but then says "And we need to sort out what they're wearing-"

"Yes-Daniel-Sam's got that-you know, the Boden top, that Daniel wore back in-"

"In Brighton?" Tom furrows his forehead, thinking. "Yeah, that would-we were going to say, no Boden, it's quite middle-class-"

"Right-"

"But, with it being a hand-me-down-that could work, it could resonate with people. We don't have to make a big deal of it, it could just be a visual reminder."

"OK. For Daniel, we've got-er-there's a sort of-raglan-sleeve thing-I'm not sure what it's called, Zia ordered it for us-"

"What colour?"

"Blue."

"Right, if you can show that to me-I can take a picture of it, send it to Rachel-" Tom steps into the kitchen, trying to see it from another angle. "We were thinking, since this one's being filmed on Hampstead Heath, we might want to go the angle of giving the kids something to do-it might look a bit-bit weird, them just walking-"

"They've-they go on their scooters sometimes-" Justine leans against the cupboard, watching, feeling her arms fold themselves across her chest again. "When we're-we're leafleting-that would-we could always put them on them-"

"That's good-" Tom chews his lip. "What colour are they?"

Justine frowns. "The scooters?"

"Yeah. The handles-the-"

"Um-" She has to think. "The-red, I think."

"You think?" Tom stares at her for a moment, then says "We can work with that. We should probably have Ed here when we're thinking about what to get them to say-"

"They know about the red team-" Justine points out, eager to get this across. "We can just-I mean, I know you don't want them to talk about it all the time-"

"Well, James will be talking to you, mostly-do you think you can get them to be quiet for a bit, and then just maybe-bring it in?" Tom's mouth twists slightly as he considers it. "It might look more natural-less natural if they just keep talking about it-"

"We can-yeah, I can go over something with them-"

She thinks she sees Tom wince slightly, but she's not sure. "You don't have to-go over it with them. Just-they don't need to have a script or anything."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but-it'll probably-help, if they've got an idea of what they could say-because they go leafleting and that sort of thing, so-we can approach it with them that way-"

Last time they took the boys leafleting, it was just her-it was back in the spring of last year, for the local elections, and Ed was away somewhere. Justine had taken the boys down, but it had been hot, and she'd had to get them dressed herself, and their arms and legs wouldn't go through sleeves and holes when she wanted them to, and then Daniel had been lagging behind in the sunshine, voice dredging itself up into a high, complaining tone, even when Justine had tried to let him hold the leaflets. Then his scooter had fallen over, and Justine had hissed at him to behave as she yanked it upright, holding his wrist to make him keep up, Daniel sniffing dolefully at her side, even when she handed him a piece of granola to keep him quiet.

She hasn't seen Daniel or Sam since the day before, when she took them to school. Justine doesn't often do the school run, which a couple of other governors had commented on approvingly-though Justine hadn't pointed out that Ed doesn't really do the school run often either. It's usually Zia or Marion who takes them and it's always Zia who brings them home. Yesterday, on the walk there, Justine had tried to interest herself in the boys' costumes, in what stories they'd be reading for World Book Day, even as her thoughts had dragged their feet at the boredom of it, her hands wrapped awkwardly around each of their wrists-she always wonders how other mothers do it, take their hands without thinking. But Daniel had been sulking in silence and Sam had burbled away but his words had been almost unintelligible, sliding into one another-Justine hopes it'll have got better by the time he starts school in September, that it's not the sign of some disorder that'll mean speech therapists and her child sitting in the corner with a learning assistant, and the spelling of the word _Dog_ being a big accomplishment-and Justine had let them wash over her, counting the minutes until they reached the school gates, and eventually Sam had fallen silent of his own accord.

She remembers walking herself to school, a little older than Daniel and Sam. She never held Alex's hand, but made him walk a few feet in front of her, so he could stay in sight. It was her job to watch him-that's what Mum had told her. She was old enough now, and Mum and Dad had to work, so it was her and Alex's responsibility-a big word-to get themselves to school. Dad was always already gone, but Mum would sometimes be there in the morning when they were about to leave, and she'd pat Alex's head, touch Justine's shoulder slightly, as though she was about to reach down to them, but always never quite managed it. Justine remembers the walk along each street, telling herself the name of each sign that was about to come up, reciting them in her head, so that she knew what was about to come next. She remembers the exhaust fumes, curling acrid on the air whenever a car went past, and she'd hold her breath, because she'd heard on the television and from Dad, when he was talking to them about his work at the dinner table, that the fumes could get into your brain and damage them, so you wouldn't be clever and be able to spell or write or anything else, and if that happened, Justine wouldn't be good at anything and she wouldn't do well, and Dad wouldn't be happy so she'd held her breath and held it and held it, until one time she'd had to kneel down at the end of the street and choke, gasping for air, until she retched, sour trails of vomit staining her mouth and the pavement, while Alex stood nearby, staring at her silently, and Justine had looked up at him, her mouth and eyes burning and screamed at him to keep walking so she wouldn't cry.

She smiles at Tom, who's now checking out of the kitchen window, taking in the view into the garden and the houses behind. "It'll be fine" she says, even though he hasn't asked her anything else. "We'll be able to get them-they'll do well with it, they won't really understand. They're too little" she manages to laugh, and she sees Tom's head jerk slightly, but he doesn't say anything.

She'd gone to school that day she was sick, she remembers, and she'd remembered it yesterday too when they finally got to the school playground and Sam let her press her lips to his cheek in an awkward smush of skin that didn't feel like a kiss at all and Daniel just walked off to his line without looking back, even when his teacher put a hand on his shoulder, and Justine's chest had tightened until she reached the school gates, and then she'd taken a deep gulp of air, her shoulders relaxing with the thought that for now, they were for someone else to look after, and she could forget.

* * *

"Oli got Teddy's."

David glances at Sam, who's nestled on the couch next to him with her head on his shoulder, scribbling in one of her sketchbooks, and lowers the volume slightly on the TV. "Sorry?"

"Teddy's." Tania's voice is slightly louder in his ear. "Oli's got Teddy's next year."

"Oh." David taps his head gently. "Teddy's. Sorry, half-asleep. You found out today?"

"Yeah, we just wanted to wait to make sure-but thank God for that. It was his first choice."

"I'll give him a ring tomorrow." David strokes Sam's hair absent-mindedly, as she glances back at her sketchbook, edging out the lines of a trouser-suit. "Is he excited?"

"Seems to be." Tania's voice drops slightly, an edge of uncharacteristic nerves creeping in. "I'm just hoping-well, I'm sure a lot of the other kids will have been to prep schools. And Oli hasn't. You know, I'm hoping he can-settle."

David's stomach squirms slightly.

"Prep schools aren't everything" he says, trying to keep the words as light as possible. Sam doesn't look up at him, but she wriggles back slightly, letting her hair brush his mouth, and David knows she's felt the sudden tension jump through his body, as though getting ready to recoil.

_The ice is on the windows. If you reach out and touch it, your fingers burn, a bright white-hot pain, and when you pull your hand back, your fingers are wet and you're colder than before. Once, you pressed your face against the window when your eyes were hot and wet and the tears stuck on your face, frozen little jags of cold, salty hurt when you curled up under the blanket._

David swallows hard. "Prep schools aren't everything" he repeats softly, almost to himself.

Tania's silent for a long moment before she says softly, "But he's pretty excited, yeah."

David shakes his head slightly. "Good. Good. Tell him well done-I mean, we'll see you on Saturday, but-"

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to ask you about."

"Don't tell me you're uninviting us, you haven't even seen the gift yet." Tania's 50 on Saturday, which necessitates both a party and David feeling an endless need to remind her of it.

"Opposite of that. I was going to ask if you wanted to invite someone."

"Who were you thinking of?" It's going to be mostly family and Tania's friends; there aren't even going to be any kids there, apart from Tania's own and nieces and nephews.

"Ed Miliband."

David nearly chokes.

"W-what?" He shakes his head at Sam, who's glanced up through her curtain of dark hair, raising an eyebrow questioningly. _Miliband,_ he mouths at her, widening his eyes overly and mouthing frantically. "Why?"

"OK, has someone put a gun to your head or something?"

"I just wondered." David takes a deep breath, trying to push away the memory of Tania's face a few weeks ago, her hand on his arm. "I mean-if it's family-"

There's a pregnant pause, before Tania says "Not for you. For me." Her voice is light, teasing the way it was when David was very small, before Clare was born, when he'd eat tea in the nursery with Gwen and Tania would, hands pushed over her mouth cramming her giggles back inside, come running up to him to shove handfuls of cake into his mouth that she'd stuffed quickly into the pockets of a dress that, a couple of years later, she'd infuriate their mother by cutting up for jodhpurs. "I quite like not being the only leftie in the room. It's fun. Keeps you on your toes."

"You'll have half your friends there" David points out, trying to ignore the sudden rapid thud of his heart. "They can spend the night helping you abuse me to your heart's bloody content if that's what you feel like."

Tania giggles. "Can I be the one to bring up the bedroom tax debate?"

"After that woman who knew every statistic about back alley abortions-if she's there, I'll hang myself before we go in."

"She's against the death penalty as well."

"If we could force her head through the noose, would it be considered a suicide?"

"Stop changing the subject. Can you invite him?"

David chews his lip. "It's short notice. He probably won't be able to come."

"No harm in inviting him then, is there?" Tania's voice is light, quick, but David's heart's thudding, his tongue moving slowly over his bottom lip.

"Tania." His voice is soft, almost cracking.

Tania doesn't say anything, waiting quietly. Sam's watching him now, pencil still in her hand, drawing only just on its' first breath.

"Fine." David's voice is a little louder than he intends, and he has the feeling they've just decided something without being quite sure what. "Fine. I'll ask him. Just-he might not say yes."

"As long as he's asked."

"Well, why wouldn't I?"

There's another heartbeat of silence and then David says "What time do we have to be there again?" and tells himself it's because he already knows there's no answer.

* * *

_You've got an invitation._

**_Speak to me in English Cameron._ **

_You don't need to treat me like that. I was just asking you a question._

**_Fine. Sorry._ **

_That's nice._

**_What else do you want me to do?_ **

_My sister wanted to know if you want to go to her birthday party._

**_Really?_ ** _!_

_You can put that down for my reaction, too._

**_If it obviously bothers you I won't go_ **

_It doesn't bother me._

**_Clearly it does bother you._ **

_No it doesn't YOU bother me._

**_Thanks._ **

_Not like that. This bothers me. Your attitude bothers me._

**_Then you won't want me there._ **

_My sister wants you there._

**_Thanks._ **

_I want you there all right? I want you there but your attitude drives me bonkers._

_I was giving you an invitation and your first reaction was to throw insults at it._

_It's bloody insulting._

**_.....Fine._ **

**_Look I'm sorry._ **

**_I thought you'd laugh._ **

_OK._

_Do you want to come?_

**_I'll have to check with Justine_ **

**_When is it?_ **

_Saturday night. I can give you the address tomorrow at some point._

_Or we could give you a lift there_

_If you'd like that_

**_I'll have to check_ **

**_But thanks_ **

**_That would be nice._ **

_It's fine._

_You're welcome._

**_Thank you._ **

_You're welcome._

_You don't have to try to make me laugh._

**_Was that a compliment?_ **

_Might have been._

* * *

Zia touches Daniel's wrist gently. "Do you want to add it up for me? Show me how to do it?"

Daniel looks round the classroom. It's Ocean Maths, when people's mums and dads come in and see them do sums.

"Now-" Jen's standing on the carpet, while everyone else is sitting at their tables. "One, two, three, eyes on me-"

Daniel looks down at the table, as everyone else's voices burble into chants around them. "One, two, eyes on you-"

Daniel looks down at the sheet of paper with the questions on. Daniel knows all the answers-yesterday, when they did maths, Jen told him that he was doing very well and that he'd have to show Mummy or Daddy when they came tomorrow.

But then when Daniel woke up this morning, Zia was there to get him and Sam ready and she said that Mummy and Daddy were already at work and that she'd be coming to do maths with him.

Now, Daniel stares down at the sheet of paper, his eyes feeling hot and wet. He likes Zia being here, but he wanted to show Mummy and Daddy. He wanted to show them the five house points Jen gave him earlier in the week, so that Dragon got ahead of Unicorn.

Zia puts an arm around his shoulders. "Daniel?"

Daniel scribbles all over his sheet of paper and shoves it away. He puts his head down on the table, and squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and pretends he can climb up into the warm blackness behind his eyes.

* * *

"Look, this has to be short" Craig says, for the third time since they walked into the field.

David touches his arm, even as Tom gives him a nod over his shoulder, from where one of the runners is touching up his make-up. "It will be. It will be, one question, and then we can-"

"It's good" David tells him, more firmly, letting his hand grip Craig's upper arm a little more tightly. "It's fine."

He lets his eyes search Craig's face a little longer than usual, playing Nick's words again behind his own eyes. But Craig's gaze doesn't flicker.

"Right-" Tom glances as him as they walk side by side across the field a few minutes later. "I'm not going to ask you anything you don't want to talk about-I'm just going to ask you about the-the aftermath of what happened-"

They've chosen the field pretty carefully. Craig hadn't even mentioned filming it at the house, and David would have refused anyway. The field is one of the ones nearby, that they often take the kids through walks on anyway. It was difficult to walk Ivan through once he got bigger, though, because his wheelchair tended to get stuck in the grass.

"And we're just-walking-" Tom glances ahead of them at the cameras. "OK, so-obviously, what you went through-is-it's not something that any of the other leaders have been through-it's not something that the majority of people will have gone through-you know, by the grace of God-so-I mean-in case this doesn't sound like a stupid question, is there a way to ever actually describe the impact it had on you, as-as a family, really?"

David takes a deep breath.

"Look, it's everyone's dread to lose a child, that you're-you know, that you-outlive your children and you lose-erm-"

Ivan had actually got too heavy in the last year, he remembers. They used to have to go round by the roads. It was getting to the point where neither of them could carry him anymore.

"Someone you love so much so young-" He rushes the words out. "That-that-it does hit you like nothing else and there is-a bit of you that thinks-well, you know if you can face that sort of-challenge-"

"Yeah-"

"-in your life, then, then-you know-"

Nancy used to like riding on Ivan's wheelchair when he was a toddler, David remembers suddenly. A couple of times, when they'd gone to the local farm, Ivan had liked to have his hand gently held out so the pigs could snort at it, and to have food put in his hand for the lambs to nuzzle. Sometimes, David would hold one up, when Samantha was home with Elwen down for a nap, with Nancy standing on his shoes, and carefully rest it on Ivan's lap, with Nancy helping him to support it, and gently pat his hand against the soft fleece.

"Y-everything else-it puts everything else into perspective."

"OK." Tom glances at him. "Do you need me-us to stop at all?"

"No, no, it's fine-" He's both surprised and not surprised to find that it's true. Speaking about Ivan usually brings the same confusing swell of emotions in his chest, tangling into a knot in his throat, but talking about him here, under the blue Cotswolds sky Ivan liked to gurgle at, is easier.

"OK." Tom shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Only one-a couple more questions, I promise-"

"Right-"

"When you were living through something so deeply _personally_ traumatic, how do you keep your game face on?"

"Well, we-"

David's hands shove deeper into his pockets, suddenly hearing the phone ringing again, another morning, the way he'd noticed a vague date of March on his phone screen before he answered it.

"When it happened, we did have to-sort of-take some time out-maybe we should have taken some more time out on reflection, but-um-"

"Why do you say that, because you hadn't-to help you deal with it-"

"Well, I, I, I-I think, erm-"

Michael's voice in his ear, garbled and frantic.

"Well, it was just a very-it was just a really difficult time-and it takes a very long time-"

"Yeah-"

"Before you-you get over it, and you-well, you never truly get over it, but what happens is that-"

He pauses, thinking.

"That slowly" he says, weighing the words in his mouth. "You-you start remembering all the positive things and-and you-you start thinking about those things rather than just-the-the gloom and the doom-and the missing and the-pain."

Tom is watching him quietly with his head on one side. The early spring breeze tickles their cheeks, still holding the whispers of winter.

"What's your favourite memory of him?" Tom says, his voice softer now.

David looks up at the sky, then, thinking.

He remembers Ivan's warm weight, his head tilted back against his chest, the lamb being held on his lap by Julian. "Can you feel the lambkin, Ivan?" His cheek pressed against Ivan's soft one, still baby soft.

"All of them" he says. "When we had him" and he looks away.

It takes a moment before Tom touches his arm cautiously. David looks at him.

Tom's voice is quiet. "The cameras weren't on for that one."

David watches him curiously for a moment, and then as Tom's hand squeezes very slightly, silently accepts the gift.

* * *

"Acting out?" Justine is sitting on the very edge of her small child's chair, leaning forward, as though trying to gather the teacher's words in. "What do you mean?"

Ed can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. His hand moves to it automatically, and Justine's clamps down on his wrist, a little too hard.

Jen sighs, spreads her hands slightly. "He was very uncooperative throughout the Ocean Maths session. But then when Zia left, he didn't want her to leave-he held onto her for quite a while-"

"Well, he's never-" Justine glances at Ed. "Done that with either of us, so-was it, did something happen in class or-"

Jen glances between them, draws her lip between her teeth for a moment. "It took us a while for us to persuade him to let Zia leave without clinging onto her" she says. "There was a lot of crying. And Daniel was quite reluctant to participate when we were able to persuade him back into the classroom. He had some time out with Polly."

Ed's phone is vibrating again. He ignores it, but reaches out and lifts Justine's hand off his arm without looking at her.

If Jen notices, she doesn't show it. "But then after playtime, he's been putting his head down on the desk, refusing to interact with me or with the other children. And then at lunchtime, he had to go on the timeout bench-he knocked a few children over while he was running and he wouldn't apologise-"

"He was running" Ed interjects without meaning to. "That's-that's not being disruptive-that's-that's just-"

Jen looks at him, then, and the sympathy in her gaze is worse than what Ed was expecting. "It was-the way it happened" she says, quietly. "So, Daniel spent the afternoon sitting with Polly-we brought him back in for story time and he seemed to have calmed down, then, but he had to miss the 15 minutes extra play today to fill in a Rights Respecting sheet with us."

"Can we see it?"

Jen shakes her head. "Unfortunately, Daniel didn't want to fill in the sheet. He put his head down on the table and wouldn't interact. That's disrespectful behaviour and that means we have to give him a sanction. He'll have to stay in at lunchtime on Monday at one o'clock club, to fill out a sheet with us."

Ed nods, not really sure what he's nodding to. "That-th-seems fair-"

Justine's frowning. "Can't we just fill in the sheet with him?"

Jen meets her gaze head-on. "You can, but I'm afraid that wouldn't be acceptable, on its' own."

"Daniel's five." Justine almost laughs slightly. "It's-it just seems a mild-" She shrugs slightly. "Overreaction."

Jen watches her, eyes narrowed, for the slightest moment, and then draws in a breath. "That's not the only reason I asked to speak to you" she says slowly. "I appreciate this is short notice and it doesn't really allow us to go into all our concerns, so we'd like to book a proper appointment with you next week, so that we can have a proper discussion about Daniel."

Ed glances at Justine. "What-what does that mean?"

Justine's staring at Jen. "What are you talking about, a discussion-what does that-is this the-a behaviour plan, you think he needs a behaviour plan-"

Jen tries to smile, but it only half-works. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We just want to have a chat to make sure that we're all working in the best way we can to support Daniel. Different children have different needs."

"I'm-" Justine takes in a breath, as though trying to keep her voice calm. "Look, I'm the-I'm the link governor for the SEN kids, I know what they-and I don't see anything like that in Daniel, I don't see-"

Ed makes a noise in his throat.

Justine glances at him. "What?"

Ed almost laughs, but not quite. "It'th juth-st-I don't know if you-maybe you don't see anything, because-you-we don't th-see-"

Justine blinks. "What?"

"We-" Jen interjects quickly, glancing between the two of them. "Look, we can discuss this more fully at another time. The thing is, we'd just like to-for you to give us a call whenever it's convenient and set up a quick meeting-it would just be the two of you and me, and Polly, who's our support assistant." She glances at Justine. "Usually-we would have the SEN Link Governor as well, but obviously-that isn't necessary."

Ed has the bizarre urge to laugh and looks away quickly.

"Well-" Justine's frowning, her hands twisting together, as though desperately trying to reach for some answer to grasp at. "Isn't there-isn't there any idea you can tell us-I mean-surely you've seen this before, there's got to be something we can do-focusing exercises, or-"

Jen gives her a long look then-one that might be sympathetic, but not quite. "Ms Thornton-" She glances at Ed. "I mean, Mrs-Ms Thornton, I don't think-that's the kind of problem Daniel has."

"Problems?" Ed's voice sounds oddly hollow. Daniel's bright. He's already grasped his four number methods. He doesn't have problems.

Jen gives him a kinder look. "Not problem. More-difficulty. Not an intellectual issue."

Ed doesn't know if he should feel guilty for feeling relieved.

"More-in the emotional-behavioural area." Jen wraps her hands together. "But it might be nothing to worry about. We just need to have these meetings sometimes to make sure everyone's on the same page and to discuss some methods to help. And to clarify if anything might be negatively affecting the child's behaviour."

"Like what?"

Jen lifts her shoulders in a shrug, which Ed has the distinct impression takes longer than she strictly needs it to. "Well" she says, slowly. "If a child's struggling with schoolwork or having problems establishing social relationships with the other children in the class-" She glances between Ed and Justine, so quickly Ed might have thought he'd imagined it. "Or-if there are any issues in the child's family life."

Justine's hand lifts again, but this time it doesn't reach for Ed's. Instead, it folds around her other hand, wrapping them together, squeezing tighter and tighter until it must hurt.

* * *

Justine grabs his arm the moment they reach the playground gates, having walked several steps in front of him across the playground, brisk pace quickening as they moved further away from the school. "What the hell was that supposed to be?"

Ed jumps in surprise. "What?" He pulls his arm back, away from her hand, a little more forcefully than he needs to.

"Saying we don't see him. In there."

Ed's mouth opens. "I never th-said-"

"That's what she'll think." Justine rarely shouts-her voice hisses out at him, the words icy darts into the air. She wraps her arms across her chest, as though tucking her fury inside her holding onto it. "How do you think it makes us look, to have the bloody school thinking we don't see our children enough?"

"Jen" Ed points out.

"What?"

"Not the whole bloody school. Jen."

For a moment, he really thinks Justine might hit something. She wheels away from him, fists clenching at her sides, her eyes squeezing shut tightly. Ed watches her, feeling oddly removed from it all, as though he's watching her on a screen, as though whatever happens happens and can spin out in front of them without touching him at all.

When Justine speaks, her voice is oddly quiet and low. "I'm a governor there." Her eyes look straight ahead of her, as though she's willing herself not to look at him. "They don't expect-things like that-from me."

Ed looks at her, then. Properly looks at her. "Daniel isn't."

Justine glances at him sharply, her gaze itself almost like a jab. She looks down at the Rights Respecting worksheet, as though only just realising she's holding it.

She folds it quickly, so quickly Ed almost thinks by rights it should end up crumpled, but Justine manages to keep it flat and smooth, even as her hands shake slightly as she stuffs it into her brown handbag. She always has that handbag, Ed thinks suddenly, watching her, and even though he must have known this all along, the sudden realisation of this feels oddly like a punch in the chest.

"We'll do that with him tomorrow." Justine almost spits the words out.

"What about tonight-"

"You've got your debate rehearsal tonight."

She's right; she knew almost before Ed did.

"And Zia will be giving them their dinner." Justine pulls her handbag further onto her shoulder. "And I don't think we should discuss one's behaviour in front of the other-they might copy and then who knows where we'll end up." Her tone is brisk, efficient, her eyes staring straight ahead, but Ed can see her hands shaking.

"Are you all right?" he could say, but what he says instead is "We've been invited somewhere."

Justine blinks, as though having to drag her gaze away from somewhere else. "What?"

"We've been invited somewhere. Tomorrow night."

Justine stares at him. "It's short notice."

"I only found out yesterday."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Ed shrugs slightly, knowing somehow this will irritate her. "You were at work."

Justine jerks slightly, as though he's slapped her. She turns away from him, hunting through her handbag for something Ed knows she doesn't need.

"I don't know" she says into the handbag. "I don't know" and he's not sure what she's talking about.

Ed turns away, almost wandering. He knows things that are coming next-that he's going to go to the corner and call a taxi, that he's going to go to Tom's house to rehearse, that he's not going to be home until long after the boys are in bed, but he says "Are you coming?"

Justine doesn't look at him when he turns back. "I brought my bike" she says, still into the bag. "I can cycle back."

Ed should touch her, he knows that. Should pat her arm, press his lips to her cheek.

"I'll see you later then" is what he says, and she just looks at him for a moment, with almost a nod, before she turns and walks in the other direction, back into the playground, to the bike racks.

Ed watches her for a few moments before he turns away, heading down to the corner, and he's halfway there before he realises she didn't mention Daniel's name once.

* * *

David slumps back against the train seat, lets his eyes close. It's been a long day.

He knows Craig will, diplomatically, leave him alone for a while to rest now that it's the end of the week, which is what he's counting on. He counts in his head, letting his eyelids flicker slightly, waiting for the moment that Gabby and Liz will leave him and Craig alone. Clare had left earlier, on a separate train.

"Did it take it out of you too much?"

It's not the opening David was expecting, but it will serve its purpose well enough. He lets his eyes open, looking at Craig, who's watching him with some concern across the table.

"Not hugely" he says honestly-there's no reason to lie, after all. "Less than I expected, actually."

Craig nods, face still all concern, and worried furrow of the mouth. David's chest aches a little, but he might as well be honest about this-it'll serve him even better for the next thing he has to say.

"It feels....strange" he says, and he sees the surprise in Craig's eyes, the twitch in his body that betrays his urge to reach across, settle a hand on David's arm. David feels an odd twinge of fondness in his own chest, watching him. It's the sort of thing Craig does. He's just...a good bloke.

"To...talk about Ive." He clears his throat. "Like that."

Craig winces, as though the words cause him physical pain. "You don't have to. If you don't like how it looks, we can take it out-we don't have to use-"

"I just meant" David says, after Craig's words have trailed off into silence. "Like...like he's part of a campaign."

Craig looks stricken. "He's not. I know he's not."

"I know." David looks away. "I just don't want anyone else to think he is."

Craig's watching him, brow crumpled. It makes guilt squeeze in David's chest. Craig's eager to do well-eager to please him. It's part of his inherent niceness. It can make telling him off feel like-not kicking a puppy. But-taunting it. Teasing it with a toy and snatching it away at the last moment.

Craig seems to fight with himself, then reaches across and awkwardly squeezes David's arm for a moment, the movement oddly sweetly earnest. David gives him a wan smile, then turns to look out of the window, steeling himself for what comes next.

He counts, not letting his eyes fall closed again, but watching the landscape travel by in silence, waiting. Then, when he feels it's right, he turns slowly to face Craig, who's also staring out of the window, until he glances over, perhaps sensing David's gaze.

David speaks slowly, quietly. "Why did you tell Nick to come up to the flat when you knew Miliband was there?"

There's a moment, a moment where the words shiver in the air and haven't quite sunk in yet. David watches them, watches Craig's mouth part automatically as the words first hit him, then half-turn quickly towards David, grappling, David knows, with the question the words pose to him-should he admit it straight away? Deny it straight out? Or should he go between the two, grasp at a misunderstanding, an excuse? David looks back at him, calmly, steadily, before he turns to look out the window again.

"It wasn't like that" is all that Craig comes out with after several long seconds of silence. David doesn't look round. "What was it like?"

Craig almost folds into himself for barely a second, before his back straightens, seized with the odd defiance that can come from being questioned. "I was just wanting to-satisfy my own mind."

"About what?"

Craig's lips form a silent shape for a breath before he says "To see if you'd-show Nick any more than any of us."

David waits, holding the words and turning them over for a moment, before he shakes his head, and turns back to Craig. "No" he says, reaching to the table and picking out one of the Haribo sweets they feast on while working. "No. That's not why you did it." He looks Craig straight in the eye, chewing the sweet as he does so. "Not to see if I'd show Nick-" He bites the head off a gummy bear. "Anything."

Craig stares at him for a moment, mouth half open, frozen in mid denial, before he arches forward, then back, spreading his hands. "Look" he says. "Look. It wasn't like-for God's sake, I was worried."

David looks straight at him. "You wanted Nick to find us doing something."

He's chosen the words very deliberately, knowing the bloom of colour will appear in Craig's cheeks, before he's even grasped what the words could mean.

"I thought-" Craig seems to fight with the words before he can get them out of his mouth. "I thought that this way-you could see how-it wasn't ideal. Meeting with Miliband like that. Anyone could walk in-"

"Actually, it was." David's voice is only very slightly louder. "It was ideal. It was private."

The colour in Craig's cheeks definitely deepens this time. "I-" He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments. "I wanted to show you-that people could know. That you meet with Miliband. That anyone could-"

He trails off, grasping for the words. David looks straight at him, eyes searching Craig's. "Could-what?" He keeps his voice light, careful.

Craig swallows, clearly turning the words over in his mouth. But he looks away. Then back quickly, to catch David's gaze.

"I wanted you to be more careful" he explains, the words almost falling over each other now. "You and Miliband-going off together-meeting up-"

He looks away quickly at those words.

"It could be-a headache" he says, as though he'd wanted to say something else. "I just wanted to-wake you up to the fact. Someone could. With someone who-who-"

"Wouldn't matter" David says quietly, tasting the sting in the words and not liking it.

Craig looks away. "Not that. But that-wouldn't use it."

"Use what?"

Craig looks at him, then, his own blue eyes meeting David's, widening slightly. For a moment, David wants to scream it at him. _Ask me. Go on, fucking ask me. Ask me what we were doing. Let me tell you about it. Tell me what to do._

They wait. Then Craig looks away briefly again, then back at him. "I'm sorry. But I was just trying to let you know-without bringing it up directly-you need to be careful. More careful. When meeting with him. You know. It might not have been Nick."

David waits, waiting for Craig to give him a suggestion. Tell him that this might not be such a good idea. Tell him to stop.

He wonders if it would be a relief.

Craig looks at him again, the gaze almost snatched, but defiant. "I'm sorry, OK?"

David meets his gaze, calmer for the rapid drumbeat of his own heart. The seconds tick by. The silence seems to beat between them.

David holds out the open packet of sweets without looking away, letting his eyebrow do the very slightest quirk. "Haribo?"

* * *

"What would you change?"

Justine looks round, jumping slightly at Sam's voice, who's standing at the counter, pouring out wine.

"Change-in the-"

Samantha grins, nodding at the kitchen units. "Here. What would you change? If you move in?"

Justine jumps. "Oh-do you know-" She manages to laugh slightly. "I haven't-honestly, I haven't really thought about it."

Samantha's eyes, very blue, and dancing with something that could be amusement, look back at her. "You don't want to be measuring-"

"Measuring the curtains-" Justine laughs, without quite knowing she's going to. "No, no, we-"

She's still not sure why she agreed to come-Ed only told her yesterday, right after they'd walked out of that meeting, and they hadn't spoken much for the rest of the night. Ed had had debate rehearsals and then this morning, they'd had Tom, Rachel and Torsten round to plan out the filming on Monday.

"If we do the filming in the house after you've taken the boys to the park-"

"So we could get them from school-" Justine had told Ed, who'd been sitting across the table in the dining room. "And then take them to the park and do the filming-"

"Now, when we do the interview with you-" Tom had said, glancing at Justine. "We were thinking-doing it here might not be the best move, it's not the-you know, woman at home, it's not really the image we want to-get across-"

"Right, OK-"

"So we were thinking maybe a neutral place-like a coffee shop or somewhere-if there are any-not like a Costa or anything, an in-"

"An independent-" Ed had finished the thought for him. "Yeah, OK, we can-we'll have a look tomorrow-if you're talking to the BBC-"

"Yeah." Tom nods. "OK-so-you-and we'll have the boys on their scooters in the park-and then, while we do the filming here, we'll probably just have a couple of quick cutaway shots of the two of you at home-you can-the boys can-"

"Well, the boys can go downstairs" Justine had pointed out, folding her legs and taking another sip of tea. "I mean, they can go with Zia once they've done-done their little bit-"

Ed had twitched slightly, as though trying to shake off an irksome fly.

"Maybe we could-we could get a couple of their little friends over or something-" he'd suggested. "You know, they could-they could stay downstairs-"

"Yeah" Justine had said, glancing at Tom for approval. "That could-that could work-"

Tom and Rachel had exchanged glances. "That could-as long as-well, they wouldn't-"

"They wouldn't need to be filmed, the boys at home, so yeah-"

"Yeah-"

"Yeah, that could work" Rachel had agreed, sitting back in one of the dining room chairs. "That could be-yeah, that would probably work, actually. Yeah."

"OK." Justine had glanced at Tom. "And we can-"

"Tomorrow, we'll focus on your-we'll go through the things-we're going to liaise with James Landale, obviously, so we know roughly what questions he's going to ask and we'll go through them tomorrow, so we've got a rough outline-and through what you're going to wear and everything-"

"Yeah, that's-that's fine-" Justine had glanced at Ed.

"Doesn't have to be too dressy, it just needs-you just need to look fairly casual, actually-"

"Right, OK-"

Justine had glanced at Ed across the table, who was nodding. "And we'll go through that tomorrow?" he'd asked suddenly, giving her a small smile, and Justine had felt a wrench of something that could have been fondness, or something she'd have liked to think was fondness.

Maybe that was what had made her say, when Ed had closed the front door behind the others, that "I'll go tonight."

Ed had stilled for a moment, looking away from her.

Then he'd said "Are you sure?", turning towards her slightly.

Justine had smiled, touched his arm. "Yes, sweetie."

Ed had smiled, but he'd tensed when she'd touched his arm, as though he'd been about to pull away.

Now, Justine swallows slightly, taking a sip of her own wine-she doesn't usually drink it, and it feels slightly surreal, the tang of it on her tongue under the bright lights of the kitchen, slicing off the stainless steel countertops and the huge American refrigerator.

"We haven't really thought about it" she tells Sam, glancing again round the kitchen. It's nothing like theirs at home, or the one she and Ed use. It's a little like Zia's-that one has a kitchen island-but Justine has only really used it on the rare occasion they've thrown a dinner party, and that hasn't happened often.

"I didn't want to move in, at first" Sam tells her, almost pulling herself up onto the counters. She's wearing a turquoise dress that almost looks like leopard print, but not quite, and it makes Justine tug at her dress self-consciously, even though it's one Rachel chose for her a few months ago.

"Really?"

"No, we were hoping to stay in King's North-where our house is" Samantha tells her conversationally, as though she's talking to anyone. She does everything easily, Justine notices-the way she leans against the counter, kicks her heels aside, sips from her glass of wine and wipes her mouth without smudging her lipstick. "But with all the security and things, they couldn't let us. And we had to let Gordon and Sarah move out, so it took a few weeks, actually."

"You moved in at-a month after, didn't you-"

"Yeah, about a month-" Sam takes a sip of wine. "We'd get all our stuff packed up though." She looks at Justine over the rim of her wineglass. "Before the election."

Justine tries to laugh, unaccustomed to the slight warmth in her cheeks. "We-we wouldn't be rushing you out."

Samantha looks back at her, smile tugging at her mouth for a moment, with a look in her eyes that isn't quite sad and isn't quite pity, but then she says "Not just for you" and, with a quick smile at Justine, knocks back the rest of her wine with one gulp, red lipstick pressing into the corners of her mouth behind the glass, a little like two drops of blood.

* * *

"You haven't told her." Cameron isn't looking at him-instead, he's playing with his glass of wine, rolling between his hands.

Ed jumps, though Cameron isn't even sitting near him. Cameron glances at him with the small hint of a smile.

"Who?" he says, his voice smaller than he means it to be.

Cameron looks away with a slight grin. "Justine" he says quietly. "You haven't told her."

Ed looks at him over the rim of his own wine glass. "Why do you ask that every time I th-see you?"

Cameron glances at him and opens his mouth, as though about to deny it, but then he says, quietly, looking at him, "I suppose...I'm just surprised. I can't imagine not telling Sam."

Ed snorts. "You can't imagine not telling your wife you're having an affair?"

He freezes, mouth half-open, and then immediately glances at the door.

Cameron's mouth twitches into a grin. "I thought you said it wasn't an affair?"

Ed snaps his mouth shut and scowls at him. Cameron watches him for another moment, still grinning, then gets up slowly, walking over to sit next to him. Ed tells himself to get up, to move away, but he doesn't. Cameron's leg is only an inch away from his own.

"Your kids-" Ed's mouth is dry.

"I told you, they're already there." Cameron's voice is quiet. "I'm not going to touch you if you don't want me to."

The words do something to Ed-send heat shuddering down his back, a swoop plunging down into his stomach. He closes his eyes, almost believing he can feel Cameron's breath against his neck.

"Why did you invite us?" Ed's voice is a whisper.

Cameron's voice is low. "Tania invited you."

"Why did she invite us?" Ed swallows hard. "Tell me the truth."

Cameron doesn't blink when Ed turns to look at him. "I don't know."

Ed gives him a sceptical look. David shrugs. "It's true.

"Fine."

"It is." David shrugs, takes another sip of wine. "Don't believe me if you don't want to."

Ed stares at him, shaking his head slowly. "How on earth do you do that?"

David frowns, lowering the glass. "What, drink?"

"Yeth, _drink!"_ Ed glances at the door, before nearly bouncing on the couch in agitation, his leg almost brushing Cameron's. "Juth-st sit there, like this is-like this is nothing, when it's-when it'th bloody-our bloody _wives_ are in there-"

Cameron's watching him with an arched eyebrow.

"And we're-we're-" Ed's falling over the words, both of his arms flailing as he tries to find a way to express just how bizarre the situation is. "We're-I'm going to your sister's _birthday party_ -what the fuck am I doing here, what am I-what are we-what the hell are we, and how did we-oh, for God's sake, _would you put the fucking wine down?"_

Cameron, who's taking another mouthful of wine, splutters with laughter, as Ed nearly knocks the glass out of his hand with a smack on the arm, meaning David nearly falls off the couch as he puts it on the coffee table. "Jesus, Miliband-"

"You-" Ed stares at him, Cameron's cocky expression and Daniel's teacher and the fact he hasn't seen the boys since this morning properly, and the fact Justine and Samantha are one room away, and just the bloody fact he's _here_ , an inch away from Cameron's mouth-"You bloody-"

Cameron kisses him. It's a quick, rushed, open-mouthed kiss, both hands taking Ed's face between them, and planting his mouth on Ed's for a moment, but almost a giggle is trapped in Cameron's throat between them, his thumb stroking Ed's cheekbone, as he pulls back, leaving Ed staring at him, lips tasting faintly of wine.

"There" Cameron says, with a grin.

It takes Ed a moment to find his voice again. "There? There? What the hell do you mean, there? What do-"

He trails off, because Cameron's hand's on his cheek again. His eyes roam down Ed's face, to Ed's mouth, lingering there, and then move up again to his eyes.

"I meant to say" Cameron says, any trace of humour gone from his voice now, the words low and soft and gentle. "Tonight. You look...really nice."

Ed stares at him. His heart's hammering, his eyes darting from David's mouth to his eyes and back again.

He leans forward very slightly, his head tilting, Cameron's mouth within reach, when the door handle turns, and they both move back, until they're sitting at opposite ends of the couch, so that when Samantha's voice says "Shall we go, then?" neither of them are looking at her or at each other.

* * *

"Do you want a bedtime story?" Marion places Stefan Rabbit under the duvet next to Daniel, moves it carefully under his arm. David and Edward didn't really have soft toys when they were little, so Marion's doing her best.

Daniel's lying in bed, facing the wall. Marion hesitates, then slowly sinks down onto the bed next to him.

"You know-" she says slowly, feeling her way through the words. "Mummy said that something happened at your school."

She doesn't remember talking to David or Edward like this. When they were young, the house was always full of meetings-there was always another meeting to plan. And David and Edward seemed to make that easier-they'd sit under the table, cross-legged, playing cards, until Ralph would make them scramble up into their chairs so they could listen.

Marion remembers Daniel as a baby, when he'd scream and scream angrily, his little face crumpled into fury. Justine would hold him out in front of her, staring at him with her forehead crumpled, as though he was a maths sum she wasn't quite sure how to solve. Eventually, Marion would reach out and take him gently, and Justine would look too relieved to hand him over to her, as though Marion was doing her a favour, and Marion never told her it was for the look on Daniel's face rather than her own.

Daniel makes an angry, small noise. Edward had called her that afternoon, his words a hurried storm into the phone-"Please, Mum, it's Zia's days off, we can't get her back, we need to get going for tonight-" and when Marion had arrived, Daniel had been sitting at the dining room table, his face smushed between his hands, elbows on the tablecloth, scowling, Justine sitting at his side, sighing and throwing her hands up as she got up.

"You know, you're only making more problems for yourself, Daniel" she'd said, getting up from the table, and then turning to Marion with a big smile, too big and wide, "Hi, Marion, thanks for this-" Marion had been reminded of the time that Edward had first introduced her to Justine, at a dinner to celebrate shortly after he'd become an MP, and Justine had stepped forward with her hand out with that same too-big smile.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Marion's new at this kind of thing, but she puts her hand on Daniel's back awkwardly, rubs it in slow circles.

"Is Sam asleep?" Daniel's voice is muffled, half-murmured into his pillow.

"Ah-" Marion put Sam to bed about ten minutes before, and he'd been asleep very quickly. Marion's not too accustomed to putting children to bed-when David and Edward had been children, one of their nannies used to put them to bed, and by the time the nannies had left, the boys had somehow grown out of the need for bedtime stories. She remembers when Sam was a baby, she'd sometimes hear him crying in his cot, a thin, plaintive cry, but Justine would say that he was such a good baby, he'd cry himself to sleep soon enough.

"I think he is, yes."

Daniel's voice is still muffled in the pillow. "Sometimes if he wakes up, he likes you to rub his back a little bit. That way, you don't have to wake Mummy or Daddy up."

Marion feels something hurt in her heart.

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. He has bad dreams sometimes."

Marion presses her mouth to Daniel's hair tentatively in a kiss. She rubs his cheek gently, feels Daniel's hot breath stutter against her hand.

"Mummy had that stupid red thing round her neck-"

"Her red thing-"

"That big red drop thing-"

"Oh-" Marion can't help but chuckle slightly-she thinks, though she's not sure, that Justine might have been wearing that the night she met her. "Yes, she had a-a choker on."

"It looks like a big stupid drop of blood."

Marion can't help but smile slightly, one hand rubbing Daniel's back awkwardly.

"Mummy didn't come."

Marion tries to see his face. "What do you mean?"

"To my Ocean Maths at school. Mummy said she'd come, and she didn't come, and Zia had to come and Mummy didn't come."

Marion looks down at him, trying to see his face, but Daniel's turned away from her.

"Did your daddy come?" she asks, trying the unfamiliar word out in her mouth.

Daniel shakes his head, one of his shoulders humping up. "Daddy never comes to anything."

Marion looks at him, his sharp chin that's too much like Justine's. Sam was born with Ed's colouring, but she has to look harder to find him in his brother. But when she looks carefully at Daniel's face, there's something there, a familiar whisper of her own son.

"Is that why you misbehaved in the playground?" she asks slowly.

Daniel shrugs once. Marion's still thinking of something to say when Daniel turns round to face her, curling up on his side before stretching out under his duvet. Marion glances round his room at the times tables charts on the wall, the stickers of numbers and spellings above his bed. A few dinosaur pictures are the only ones that Daniel's eyes linger on for any length of time.

"Does Daddy have a big brother?" Daniel extends his hands, fingers splaying a little, as though trying to encapsulate the size of his imagined uncle.

Marion waits a moment, catching his fingers in her own before she answers. "Yes, he does. Your Uncle David. " She catches the words in her throat before she says "Do you remember your Uncle David?"

Daniel's forehead furrows up. "Um. He went away a long time ago, back when I was li-little-and then sometimes he talks on the phone."

Marion manages to smile, as she strokes Daniel's hair off his forehead. "Well. That's because Uncle David-lives very far away."

"New York?"

"That's right." Marion taps his nose uncertainly, but it makes a small smile bloom uncertainly on Daniel's face, as if it doesn't know whether it's right to be there. "Uncle David has a job there."

Daniel's brow furrows again, his little mouth curling around the words. "Did-he look after Daddy-Daddy when he was little?" The last word stretches into a yawn, rounded in his baby-soft lips.

Marion tries to remember. David was four when Edward was born, and he'd held him uncertainly, looking down at him gravely with a sharpening of his gaze, almost a suspicion of this new intruder. But when Edward had been toddling, he'd really been too young to join in any of David's games, though he'd sometimes try, his hands curling into David's sleeves, hot tears dampening his cheeks when David shook him off.

When she speaks, her voice is a little thicker. "I suppose he must have done."

Daniel's quiet, but his big blue-green eyes look back at her, searching her face, as if trying to find the answer there. His eyes aren't Justine's pale blue, or dark, like Edward's and Sam's. They're their own colour.

"Are you still going to be here in the morning?" Daniel asks her suddenly, pressing his face a little deeper into the pillow.

Marion rubs his shoulder. "Yes. Mummy and Daddy will be back in the afternoon, but I'll be here when you wake up. And then I think-Daddy's got some of his friends coming over, hasn't he?" Edward had once told her after a party conference that Daniel had told Justine's mother when she'd asked him if he'd liked the weekend that he'd said there were too many of Mummy and Daddy's friends, laughing slightly, as though wanting it to be funny. Marion had watched him for a moment, remembering those meetings, David and Edward sitting under the table, before she'd forced herself to smile back.

Daniel's face scrunches in on itself, pulling at Stefan Rabbit's ears. "But you're going to-still be here when I wake up?"

Marion touches his nose again. "Yes."

Daniel yawns, snuggles further down into the pillow. "When we-when we get up-Mummy and Daddy are usually at work" he informs her, watching her through one half-open eye. "They go before we-before we have breakfast."

Marion watches him, her chest suddenly full of a new, almost painful, pressing emotion. She has no memory of lying with David or Edward on their beds like this, but she manages to press her mouth to Daniel's forehead in a kiss, and then, awkwardly, moves her arms around him so that she's holding him.

"I will be here when you wake up" she says, and even when Daniel's breathing is slow and steady, his eyelashes flickering in his dreams, Marion holds him a while longer, experimenting with the still-unfamiliar feel of a warm, little sleeping body in her arms, draped against her with the nervousness of someone who wants to trust.

* * *

"I've jutht thought-" Ed says suddenly, in the back of the car.

David glances at him. "What?" They're travelling in the big family car, so that he and Sam can bring the kids back the next day, and he and Miliband have given Sam and Justine the seats in front, so they're wedged into the back.

"You don't drive." Ed's watching him curiously, as though this has only just occurred to him. "At all. Do you?"

Sam snorts. "Sore point."

David rolls his eyes, kicking her seat affectionately. "I used to."

"Yeah, all the time-you wouldn't have been able to get him to listen to the bloody Satnav, though-"

"I'm not going to listen to the Satnav, if the bloody Satnav's telling me to go the wrong way!"

Sam rolls her eyes over her shoulder at Ed. "The short way of saying it is, it's easier now he doesn't."

Ed laughs nervously. David kicks Sam's seat again, then leans forward, twining his fingers through hers. Ed's eyes linger on the touch.

"But no-" David turns to look at him. "You won't be able to from the start of the campaign. Didn't anyone tell you?"

Ed's brow furrows. David has the odd urge to reach out and run his finger down the little dent between his eyebrows. "Er-no-"

"Will I be able to?" Justine twists round in her seat to look at Sam.

"Yeah, as long as-when you're not in a-"

"Government vehicle-" David explains, only managing to pull his gaze away from Ed for a moment. "Then you have a driver." He glances back at Ed then. "Didn't you-think about this?"

His voice is soft, the question hovering in the air just between the two of them.

Miliband's eyes meet his, looking somehow brighter, even in the darkness of the car. "I th-suppose-we didn't want to measure the curtains-"

David shakes his head without knowing he's doing it. "Didn't you?"

Miliband's words falter, and his gaze meets David's. "I didn't want to until now."

David's heartbeat is suddenly audible. He's very aware of his hand lying on the backseat, a few inches away from Miliband's. If he moved an inch, he could-he could just-

Miliband's hand twitches very slightly. David looks up at him, their eyes meeting again, sending a little shock through him.

"It's probably better-" His voice is softer than ever, and the words hurt somehow, even though they shouldn't. "If you think about this-before you do it."

Their hands are an inch apart, and he can feel the heat of Miliband's skin an inch away from his own, feel Sam's gaze resting on them, and Justine's resting on her. Miliband's finger brushes his for the slightest instant, the hot tickle of his touch sending shockwaves through him.

"I suppose." Miliband's words are slow, and halting and tremble in the air between them, the soft whisper of that touch raising the hairs on both of their necks, as they drive towards the party.

* * *

_Playlist_

_ Butterfly-Kyle Dixon & Michael Stein (Butterfly Soundtrack) _

_Dear John-Taylor Swift-" _ _Long were the nights when my days once revolved around you/Counting my footsteps, praying the floor won't fall through..You paint me a blue sky/But go back and turn it to rain/And I lived in your chess game/But you changed the rules every day...Maybe it's you and your sick need to give love and take it away..You are an expert at sorry/And keeping lines blurry/Never impressed by me acing your tests"_

_Into You-Julia Michaels-" _ _I wish we didn't have so many friends in common/I wish we didn't have to walk around our problems/I wish we didn't have to take all these precautions/So many birthdays that I missed, that I missed, that I missed/So I don't run right into you/So I don't run right into you/So I don't run right into you/Even though that's what I wanna do"_

_When You're Around-Motion City Soundtrack-" _ _Can we fake it? Can we make believe?/I'm so full of love it deeply sickens me/But all I could do was close my eyes/And cross my heart and hope to die/'Cause you don't fucking listen/When I'm around/The least you could do is take it back/All the vicious remarks and verbal attacks/'Cause I can't fucking stand it/When you're around/Midwest aftermath, the rumours start to rise/Did I truly do the things that you've described?"_

_Queer-Garbage _ _-"Hey boy, take a look at me/Let me dirty up your mind/I'll strip away your sweet veneer/And see what I can find..I know what's good for you, you can touch me if you want/I know you're dying to, you can touch me if you want..You can touch me, you can touch me/But you can't stop"_

_Feeling Of Being-Lucy Schwartz _ _-"Wonder if we ever really know each other/And I wonder if we ever find out what we're after/And the truth of it is we're both winding down the river/And if you could only let go/Find the hidden silver"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes of the Cameron family in the Downing Street flat that they're filming in this chapter can be seen here, as well as Samantha and George's interviews:https://bit.ly/2QRoNrq  
> That week's PMQs:https://bit.ly/2vVUw3r  
> Nancy being very green:https://bit.ly/33WDcYK  
> https://bit.ly/2y94Aqm  
> The Fiona and Alastair incident about Nancy's school:https://bit.ly/3dDiSA0  
> Samantha being a Jessie Burton fan:https://bit.ly/2QQlfFI  
> The story about Ed and the leaflets:https://bit.ly/2JiH4cS  
> The suggestion for the Miliband kids to have friends round:https://bit.ly/2WWPgaZ  
> The Boden reference:http://dailym.ai/3dEu3rZ  
> The Flynn comment referenced:https://bit.ly/39pk0nv  
> Justine's dress:https://bit.ly/2JmFLtr  
> Samantha's dress:https://bit.ly/2QSDjPM  
> The farm mentioned:http://dailym.ai/2UI0sFv  
> Ivan and the lamb:https://bit.ly/2UnpWZP  
> Sam liking Aesop handwash:https://bit.ly/33RmidS  
> Ivan's funeral:https://bbc.in/3brVHGO  
> David loving Haribo:https://bit.ly/3dBdMUP  
> The pigeon-shooting incident:https://bit.ly/2wN1CHV  
> Harry and Dave's interviews:https://bit.ly/2vWC4Yv  
> https://bit.ly/39utY6R  
> Sam's first 2010 interview:https://bit.ly/3bz4fMk  
> https://bit.ly/2JoaINO  
> David saying he didn't want Nancy swallowed up in a big school:https://bbc.in/39wAkTD  
> https://bit.ly/3dxKPJo  
> https://bit.ly/2WOYHsJ  
> The rifle range being turned into an office:https://bit.ly/2UqNnl0  
> The "too many friends" reference from Daniel:https://bit.ly/2WS01eG  
> The Brighton references:https://bit.ly/33UmJE4  
> https://bit.ly/39wr4ik  
> The previous clips of the Camerons at home:https://bit.ly/3argkTp  
> https://bit.ly/2wAOqG9  
> Sam mentioning Dave not being allowed to drive:https://bit.ly/2JiWBJT  
> Sam mentioning them trying not to move into Downing Street at first:http://dailym.ai/2JovP2x  
> Where Allie went to school:https://bit.ly/2xzjTZ3  
> Lorraine's, Jeremy's, Grant's and the Harmsworths' kids:http://dailym.ai/33SXK49  
> https://bit.ly/2xrEqyR  
> https://on.ft.com/3au7Yuc  
> http://dailym.ai/2UJZKYd  
> https://bit.ly/33SxN4D  
> David's friendship with Camilla:https://bit.ly/2JrZGXP  
> Tony sending his children to the Oratory:https://bit.ly/2wBTWbw  
> https://bit.ly/3dzJ6Dm  
> You can see the Peter Rabbit and Peppa Pig books/toys here:https://bit.ly/39qY6jI  
> https://bit.ly/3brZB2q  
> https://bit.ly/2Jnwgu0  
> The Mr D reference:https://bit.ly/2JyQzoF  
> The references to Major's and IDS's kids:https://bit.ly/2UNsIGG  
> https://bit.ly/3asEJb9  
> The dead cat and dogwhistle references:https://bit.ly/2UrXhmt  
> The jewel Daniel and Marion mention Justine wearing:https://bit.ly/2UMhMcz  
> Lino is Sam's hairdresser:https://bit.ly/39nwtrB  
> Justine mentioning not throwing dinner parties:https://bit.ly/2xy5xrU  
> Justine holding her breath on the way to school:https://bit.ly/2xswmhs  
> Some of the Peter-Gordon drama:https://bit.ly/2Unycch  
> https://bit.ly/2vVkwvI  
> The Camerons taking a month to move into Downing Street:https://bit.ly/3aoUvnG  
> Natalie Bennett's car crash interview:https://bit.ly/2JlqN7d


	6. Anniversarial Aggravation, The Inequities Of Inebriation And A Relaying Of Rapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which anniversary hospitality is not reciprocated, New York and metatarsals don't combine, and there is, tragically, rapping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes for this chapter refer to being political wives, Ed's school, and Michael's cocaine confession.   
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Er...possibly, I think (Torstiekins) is Justine's..._

_Oh, so that's also one of hers'?_

_Yep, definitely. She gets copyright. Copyright Justine Thornton._

_-Ed Miliband, speaking in 2017_

_And Sam, tell us-because your, your first child-erm-Betsy-who I know.._

_-Ed Miliband, speaking in 2018_

_Grace: **So....'cos I've spoken to Justine before about how frustrating she found it when you were leader and during the campaign and it was like, she'd turn up places and all anyone cared about was what she was wearing.**_

_Ed: **I'm-I'm more than a dress, that's what she used to say..yeah, and it took me too long to realise. And-took me too long to realise. I think the things like the-coming up on stage after Labour Party Conference-I shouldn't have done that...I think if-you know, if I did it again-I'd do it very differently....Look, I also underestimated the stress, anxiety and-you know, nightmare it was for her. Partly watching the person you love go through being leader-I mean, that's kind of-it's probably-hard to avoid (laughing) but I think it's a really, really hard, I think it's a-I-I think it was incredibly hard for her. Actually.**_

_Alastair: **What, you mean the personal abuse and stuff?..Or the not being there or what?**_

_Ed: **Er...well, I think probably both of those things but I think it's also that you care so deeply about him-the person-but there's also nothing you can do about what they're going through-you know what I mean? She couldn't-you know, when things went wrong or ups and downs-she couldn't sort of really do that much about it. (laughing)...But maybe that's just intrinsically hard. I mean, presumably hard for Philip May or whoever...But I don't think that I was sufficiently appreciative of that-and I think she was far too much expected to sort of be there at these events and so on-now, necessarily, my team did the best they could supporting her, but I probably-I wasn't cognisant enough of it.**_

_Grace: **Yeah. 'Cos it's interesting, I was telling Dad, she told me this thing, which-I hope it's OK if we say it, if it's not OK to say it-but she told me that during the campaign, her-Miriam Clegg basically said this joke one day-why don't we all just turn up wearing the same dress? (laughing) Because all they care about-about Sam Cam, Miriam Clegg and Justine-**_

_Ed: **Yeah.**_

_Grace: **-was what they were gonna turn up wearing.**_

_Ed: **Yeah.**_

_Grace: **And no one really looks at what Philip May's wearing...And it's just that it-it sort of feels like nothing's really changed in the time that I'd say you two have been in politics.**_

_Ed: **Well, some things have changed and some things haven't changed and I think that it-you're right to say that the sort of spousal role when it's a woman is one of those things.**_

_-Ed Miliband speaking in 2019_

_Samantha: **We had lots of outfit disasters-erm-forgetting the right underwear, so not having a nude bra to wear under something and I remember, you know, having some poor girl kind of working on Dave's team, having to lend me her bra at one party conference!** (laughing)_

_Isabel: **Oh my goodness-**_

_Samantha: **Because we couldn't get to Marks & Spencer and back in time by the-by the time I'd realised I'd left it at home-erm-I forgot a pair of shoes one time and again, I had to sort of wrestle some shoes off **(laughing) **kind of-I think it was George's-um-assistant. I had-er-we had zip-you know, zips that would break just before-you know, you'd be trying to do the zip up and it would suddenly break just before you were about to have to kind of go and stand on the steps of Downing Street and I think-the worst was a party conference where I'd just had a baby and I'd sat down in the chair in the party conference hall and-I'd heard this sort of ominous kind of rip all down one-one side of the dress and-er-and then sort of, I was thinking all "What am I going to do, I've got to walk up and onto the stage in front of all these people in this auditorium and kind of-you know, all of the British press and on TV-"-and-er-luckily, they, the, the-er-one of the team sort of smuggled a sort of scarf-erm-to me and I kind of remember holding this scarf against my-and trying to sort of make it look natural and** (laughing) **not awkward against my side as I went up onto the stage and we did-we did get away with it, nobody noticed!.....And I mean, there was quite a lot of stuff I didn't do, so people would say-"Will you-"-you know-"Would you like to meet so-and-so when they come to visit Downing Street?" and if it meant that I had to-find an outfit, get my hair and make-up done, be photographed, actually, we'd go "No, I've got a job, I've got children, Isabel's too-we just don't have time to prepare for that" so there were a lot of things-so you'd actually try and do-it looked like I was potentially doing quite a lot, but it was much less, I think, than people thought because it is-it was time-consuming and there was a lot of other stuff that I-you know-both of us were having to get done in-not just our life in Downing Street, but, you know, in my case at-at my day job** (laughs) **and, and, you know, with my family.** -[Samantha Cameron, speaking in 2018](https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/play-episode/id1321368650?i=1000422614965)_

_Charlie: **Did you feel like, you know, your wardrobe and you put yourself together was scrutinised a lot more than David's?**_

_Samantha: **Erm-I mean, his** (laughing) **-his wardrobe was scrutinised quite a lot as well! And I think it is fascinating, how much the colour of a politician's tie or, in Dave's case, in the sort of holiday shot, whether he was wearing socks or not, I mean, days and days of commentary** (laughing) **. Erm-er-so I think he did get scrutiny as well-erm-and I think it's just inevitable, you know, I don't think I was surprised, but you do have to be prepared for it-**_

_Isabel: **And you took it with a pinch of salt, which you mastered well.**_

_Samantha: **Yeah, you have to laugh at it.**_

_Charlie: **Tell me about those holiday shots because that doesn't look like anything anyone should have to do.**_

_Samantha: **It was, it was kind of-it was one of the worst things we had to do because obviously, you're arriving on holiday, you're supposed to be-it's a holiday, it's supposed to be a shot where you're looking kind of healthy and tanned and kind of on holiday, and as it was, you-you'd been doing late nights at the office preparing to go away, packing for your children** (laughing), **you're sort of feeling really unhealthy and white when you arrive and then you've got to sort of look like this sort of-you know, healthy, glowing couple. And-and finding an appropriate outfit to be photographed in when you're on holiday-ermm-it was-er-er-you know, we laughed a lot about those moments, the pointing at fish and in the-** (laughing)- **and in the end, you-I-you, you know, you'd just be like "Oh, here it comes again", you'll just wear the kind of-I had the same dress, actually, that I'd wear, the same outfits-**_

_Isabel: **I remember going "Not another fish photograph!" Like, "Oh, what else do we find?"**_

_Samantha: **Erm-and in the end, you were just sort of taking the piss out of the situation for yourself, for-it'd become a sort of comedy moment, really.** -[Samantha Cameron, speaking in 2018](https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/play-episode/id1321368650?i=1000422614965)_

_Charlie: **How did you go about preparing-you know, how much thought really went into those outfits?**_

_Samantha: **A lot. So obviously, you would do your best to make it look kind of-um-effortless and natural, but the reality is that when you are being photographed, and particularly being photographed getting in and out of cars, getting on stage at party conferences, standing-you know, having lots of kind of-erm, er-photographers-sort of at your feet, in some cases, so just looking up your skirt. You do, you do have to be really prepared and if you're going to get up on stage at a party conference, having been sitting down for an hour, watching your husband, obviously adoringly, as he's giving his speech, you don't then want to look-have your clothes be really creased or look a crumpled wreck when you get on stage, so we did, we would-you, you would have to spend a lot of time trying on different outfits, seeing what would work-sometimes, we would even-you know-photograph them to see what they would look like in a photograph 'cause sometimes, you know, what would look good if you were just going out for dinner with your friends, suddenly the scrutiny of a camera and a kind of full-length shot-doesn't look quite as good as you thought it did when you looked in the mirror. So there was a lot of preparation and thought went into it, 'cos you're trying to look appropriate while-you know, in a situation that is not normal to your everyday life, while trying to feel like you're looking like yourself as well, and sort of adhering in some ways to your own personality.-**[ Samantha Cameron, speaking in 2018](https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/play-episode/id1321368650?i=1000422614965)_

_Samantha S: **And finally, what-do you have one thing that you learnt, a sort of grown-up life lesson to share with us?**_

_Samantha: **Don't start smoking cigarettes!** (laughing) **I think that's my main one! That's what I say to my daughter the whole time-I'm afraid I'm a terrible cigarette addict! I mean, I don't smoke 90% of the time, then I have little phases when I do-and it's just the worst, I'm like, "Why did I ever start?" It's just terrible, so I think of-I like to think that the news is correct and, you know, children nowadays are not taking up smoking as much as they did when I was young but that would be my most important piece of advice?-**[ Samantha Cameron, speaking in 2018](https://audioboom.com/posts/6992520-ep-6-samantha-cameron-on-how-she-makes-her-marriage-work-should-you-compliment-your-children-an)_

* * *

_For instance, consider this cycle of despair. We decided that allowing ITV (and BBC) cameras in to film Miliband and his family "relaxing at home" during the election was an opportunity to show viewers **"the real Ed."** But by this stage, we had almost lost sight of what that was, so neuralgic had we become about concealing his most left-wing instincts from voters or preventing him ever being seen eating sandwiches. Our media team sought to choreograph every moment of the visit down to the plastic toys his children would walk in carrying._

_It did not stop Sarah Vine, a Daily Mail columnist, using the film to attack the Miliband family for having such an austere kitchen it might have been modelled on Soviet-era flats. Another newspaper columnist (Jenni Russell, whose child Ed Miliband is godfather to), ever keen as she was to show off her connections, tweeted that she knew the Milibands had a " **lovely" s** econd kitchen and only used the one shown on TV for the " **preparation of tea and quick snacks."** Miliband, in a spasm of honesty, then admitted the second kitchen was **"just for the nanny." T** he verdict from the media-both old and new-was that we had cynically sought to portray Miliband as normal and the whole operation had backfired into an authenticity disaster. It was hard to disagree.-Ctrl Alt Delete: How Politics And The Media Crashed Our Democracy, Tom Baldwin_

_Back in the 1990s...I spent many a late night and early morning with two of the characters whose strange careers have flickered through the pages of this book...(Steve) Hilton himself had almost joined the ranks of non-voters. He spent most of that election night on 7 June 2001, in his north London flat playing music at full volume, watching Sky News with the volume turned down while telling me he had voted for the Green Party because of his contempt for (William) Hague's illiberal and desperate efforts at " **populism.".**...(Hilton) had returned to politics as Cameron's all-powerful strategist after spending a few years helping big corporations like McDonalds improve their image. Hilton was by then married to Rachel Whetstone and the couple were joint godparents to Cameron's eldest son. But Whetstone, a straight-talking and formidable Tory adviser had left politics in 2005 to become a successful executive with Google. When they came to visit me in Washington, a pregnant Whetstone fell asleep on the sofa as Hilton railed against the journalists back in London who were just **"too stupid"** to understand how revolutionary Cameron could be... As for Hilton, he and I stopped speaking at some point between my decision to work for the Labour Party and his to back Brexit.-Ctrl Alt Delete: How Politics And The Media Crashed Our Democracy, Tom Baldwin_

_One evening in the week before coming home (from holiday) we went for dinner at the Senes and I texted Peter M. After chatting a bit re Propiac, where he had once come with us on holiday when the boys were small, he said George Osborne was at the next table in the taverna in Corfu. I said **tell him sometimes things go to those who don't deserve it.** He did so and Osborne said simply " **GB."** -The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_In the run-up to the (leadership) launch, Gove was put through his paces by his team as they tried to anticipate what questions he would face from the media. It was during this session that Gove made a startling admission. According to someone with intimate knowledge of the event, Gove was asked if he had ever taken drugs. **"Yes, cocaine"** he replied. Gove was instructed not to give that answer in public and told instead to fall back on the words David Cameron had used when he was running for leader, namely that politicians are entitled to a private life before entering politics. There had long been rumours in Westminster that Gove had taken the drug while working at The Times, but the claims had never been reported. The fact that Gove-who at the time was Justice Secretary and Lord Chancellor-was seemingly prepared to go public with this information would have marked the first time a candidate for the highest office in the land admitted taking a Class A drug...On Friday 7 June (2019), Gove found himself facing another issue which threatened to derail his leadership bid. The Daily Mail secured the rights to publish extracts from this book, and his confession to an aide in 2016 that he had previously taken cocaine was going to be front and centre of the paper's coverage. The paper went to Gove for comment that evening, and he was advised by his wife to tell the truth. **"I had no hesitation. Just be honest, I told him. Tell the truth on television, rather than shy away or dodge questions"** she wrote in her column for the Mail five days later. Gove followed her advice and issued a statement to the paper: **"I took drugs on several occasions at social events more than twenty years ago. At the time I was a young journalist. It was a mistake. I look back and I think, I wish I hadn't done that."...** The story gained more traction the following day, when the Mail On Sunday ran a story claiming that cocaine had been taken at a party in Gove's flat in Mayfair on 27 December 1999-just hours after he had written a column for The Times decrying middle-class drug takers. His article set out the reason Gove did not support a relaxation of drug laws, as he criticised journalists who called for reform out of a sense of guilt as they themselves took illegal substances. **"There is no greater sin in journalistic eyes than hypocrisy"** Gove argued. He went on: **"Middle-class professionals may be able to live with, manage and control drug use much as they have grown used to managing adultery. But it is a little less easy to cope with the consequences of illegal drug use, or family breakdown, in South Shields than it is in south Hampstead. If elites, for the comfort of their own consciences, say an activity is fine when the costs for others are much less easy to bear, then what's virtuous about that?"**_

_The source who spoke to the Mail did not say whether Gove had taken the drug at the party that night but claimed he must have known the Class A drug was being indulged in by some present. **"It wasn't that people were doing it in the open on the sofas, but it would be hard for him not to have been aware of what was going on"** said the guest. A spokesperson for Gove told the Mail On Sunday that the Environment Secretary had **"no recollection of a party on that date."** -Michael Gove: A Man In A Hurry, Owen Bennett_

_Whether the school can really be labelled "rough" by the standards of London state schools, however, is debatable and contested by those who worked there. Ed Miliband himself has descibed it as **"tough"** and admitted to the occasional fight in the playground. One was described by a contemporary of Ed called Kevin Mustafa, who in a colourful account in the Mail On Sunday in February 2011, claimed that the future Labour leader had called him a "Turkish bastard." He has said that **"School was about looking after yourself despite being weedy. You would have to take care not to get beaten up in the classroom." I** n the same Mail On Sunday report, contemporaries of Ed backed the idea of Haverstock as a tough school. Socratis Socratous, who studied A-level maths with Ed in the sixth form, said: **"Everybody would have been hit at school at some point. I used to have to walk around with my dinner money in my socks."** But he added **"Both Ed and David were genuinely really good guys and were ultraintelligent. If it were not for Ed I would not have passed my maths A-level. The teacher was crap. Ed used to give me his homework. From copying his homework I learned the process and passed my exams."** Ed himself remembers enjoying maths, and still speaks highly of his maths teacher at the time, Steve Carlsson._

_Haydon insists that while there was some feuding between local comprehensive schools, Haverstock was relatively tame. **"We have always been concerned about making sure the students are safe. I would never say the school was an unsafe place. I wouldn't say it was ever any worse than other local schools."** She adds that, for middle-class parents in Islington, Haverstock was **"certainly the school that parents wanted to send their kids to."** And-crucially-it was the school and not just the middle-class nature of pupils like the Miliband boys that aided their subsequent aspirations.....He (Ed) may have been bullied, as he confessed to a Treasury colleague two decades later, but he certainly did not retreat into introspection.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre And Mehdi Hasan_

_Two days before he (Iain Duncan Smith) won the leadership contest on 13 September 2001, the world changed. When the first plane struck the World Trade Center I was at home in Dean doing constituency work. Samantha was in New York starting the process of setting up a new Smythson store in Manhattan. For about four hours I was unable to get in touch with her because the telephone lines were down. I sat with the TV remote control in one and my mobile phone in the other, watching in shock and pressing redial over and over again. By the time I got through to her that evening I was staring out of the window on the train to London. Relief.- For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_But I worked_

_within the confines of my character, cast_

_as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side._

_-"The Benjamin Franklin Of Montgomery", Jeffrey McDaniel_

_The summer before middle school had been an enlightening one. In June, when one of my summer camp crushes, Jake, finally took off the baseball cap he had been wearing the whole week and revealed his messy hair, I looked at him and the word "sexy" came to mind. Don't think that, I had scolded myself, but it was too late. By August, my world had changed. President Clinton was under fire for having an affair with an intern, the number one hit in the country was "Too Close" by Next, about a guy who gets an erection when a hot girl dances too close to him, and I had slow-danced with two boys at camp._

_"Something happens after you turn eleven" I wrote in my diary a month after my eleventh birthday. "You start to like boys. Really like boys."..Back at school, some of the girls were catching up with the boys. A girl named Christina made out with a boy in front of the school, and Jeanette was dating a sixteen-year-old. T.S.S., I called them. The Slut Squad. I hated them, and made sure everyone knew it._

_"Mara" asked my brother Danny, "what do they do, exactly?"_

_"Well, they..." They hadn't really done anything to me. Someone told me Christina had made a face at me once when my back was turned, but that was it. They just offended me, the way they strutted around, talking to boys like it was the most natural thing in the world. I didn't want to admit it, but I was jealous. I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted someone's sweaty hand in mine. I wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. French-kissed._

_At first, I kept my urges secret. By eighth grade, though, something had changed. It seemed to happen to all of my friends simultaneously. Not only did we start to notice the physical changes, we embraced them: someone would make a dirty joke and instead of feeling confused or disgusted, we felt good. It felt like a sugar high, but better. Hearts would race, palms would sweat, and bodies would tingle with an overwhelming feeling of anticipation.A wink from the right person and I was on my own personal rollercoaster.-"The Junior Anti-Sex League", Where Am I Now?, Mara Wilson_

__

_"Mary had liked to look at her from a distance...but as she knew very little of her, she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone. She did not miss her at all, in fact" -The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett_

_"It would be unseemly to correct them, to point out that her daughter was a culmination of good genes and good breeding, and neither of these came down to luck. That she'd worked hard to ensure she had a daughter worthy of her, and she raised Nikki to appreciate that hard work and continue it on her behalf. Seventeen years of approximated perfection: hair, skin, teeth, clothes, friends, boys, everything as it should be._

_The best of everything, as it should be."-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

* * *

Sunday morning is creeping across the creamy walls of Tania's kitchen, as she slumps into a chair next to Carl, resting her head on his shoulder. "OK" she mutters, reaching out to pull Xan into her side, planting a kiss onto his cheek. "That was the best party ever, but I think if you do it again, it might kill me."

David hears her. But he doesn't look up. Instead, he keeps his eyes on his plate unseeingly, trying to focus on the vague throbbing pain in his head, trying not to look over the table.

"I don't even think-" Carl glances across at the coffee machine, ruffles Oli's hair warily as he slumps into the chair next to him. "God, I don't think I've got the energy to use the bloody thing."

David can feel Samantha's hand brush his under the table, her fingers fold briefly around his. It's all he can do to squeeze back, his eyes still resting on the table, telling himself to just get through the next few seconds. From the corner comes a loud, happy, high-pitched gurgle from Iris, who's half-crawling back and forth across the floor. Florence, sitting on Clare's knee, opens her arms to her happily. "Iris-Iris is nearly _walking-"_

Nancy's head presses into David's arm, and he lets his arm fall around her, as Emma cuddles into her side. "Are you all right, Nance?"

His voice is slightly blurred, thickened with the night before, but it _is_ his voice.

Nancy-thank God, thank God-nods, cuddling into him, one hand patting at Emma's hair vaguely. "Yeah." She yawns, hair falling down over the collar of her silk pyjamas-David doesn't even remember her putting them on but at some point in the night she must have done. But then, he remembers most other things.

"Amazed _you_ are" mutters Clare, giving him a nudge in the shoulder as Florence slides down to crawl next to Iris, Clare bending down to kiss Emma's head, Molly cuddled into her side, looking slightly wiped out, her blonde hair looking paler somehow, as Clare lifts her, checking her face. "You're looking a bit peaky-"

"You slept OK, didn't you?" Sam says, glancing across at Justine, who looks-all right, David thinks with a rush of something like relief, as he looks across the table at her. She looks _something_ like all right, more colour in her cheeks than the others.

"Yes, I slept-I slept all right, actually." Justine glances at Ed next to her, and David feels something jump in his chest.

He doesn't look. He very carefully doesn't look.

"Yeah, usually I do-" Sam laughs, pushing her hair back. "But last night-"

"Yeah-"

"I mean, once I was asleep, it was all right-but-did you hear from Alex and Sarah?" she asks suddenly, glancing at Tania, who just groans again, leaning her head on her hands.

"I think they called when we were in bed " Carl mutters.

"We wouldn't have seen Gus until something like three, anyway-"

David's staring at the plate, Nancy's hair soft between his fingers. He tries to focus on that, even as Elwen leans against Xan's shoulder, peering at something on the Nintendo he's playing with, even as Sam's and Justine's voices keep going, a low heartbeat by his ears, even as he doesn't look across the table, across the table-

A foot bumps into his ankle and David looks across the table.

Ed's eyes only hold his for a second, big and dark and caught, before they dart away, and David stares back at the table, heart pounding.

* * *

David catches up to Ed when he's throwing a bag into the taxi.

"Look-" He glances around at the others, who are also packing up-one of the best times to have a conversation you don't want anyone else to hear is when everyone else is around you, and you don't appear to be doing anything interesting, which is why George meeting Peter in a tavern in Corfu wasn't an issue, but George and Peter murmuring together on a yacht in Corfu _was._ "We need to talk."

Ed slams the boot down a little too hard. "No, we don't" he manages to say, with a smile that looks slightly painful. David rolls his eyes, lets his hand touch Miliband's elbow.

Miliband, predictably, jumps several feet in the air. He fixes his eyes on David's face, the colour draining from his cheeks.

"What are you doing?" His voice is a whisper, and David rolls his eyes.

"You know, everyone's going to look at you if you do that" he points out. "The only better thing to do would be to march me into the corner and pull a blanket around us."

Miliband's mouth works furiously, silently.

"Look, we're going to have to talk about it at some point."

"No, we're _not."_ Miliband jerks suddenly, as though about to pull away, then thinking better of it. "We're not."

"And what if someone else knew?"

Miliband almost whips round. If the colour had left his face earlier, it's nothing to what's happening now.

"Oh, Christ, Mili-band-" David catches himself at the last minute. "Don't look like that, you look like a fucking corpse that's just been reanimated-"

"Would you just _stop-"_ Miliband looks round, then forces his voice into a low, furious hiss. "Stop _fucking around_ and-"

"That'll make everyone look at us-" David holds up a hand to Jem, as he makes his way out of the door, with the slow movements of someone who feels his head is about to explode. "Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakes-yeah, see, if you'd carried on with that, Miliband, everyone would have been staring at us, thinking, "Why the hell is he whispering like a balloon?", but now, my brother-in-law is too busy trying not to collapse in a puddle of his own regret to notice that you're having a panic attack."

"Are you still fucking _drunk?"_

David's not sure. He doesn't feel drunk. He feels wired, every muscle pulled tight, his heartbeat a low, frantic hum of panic in his chest.

"We're not talking about this" Miliband says, and he turns on one heel and heads into the house, stones crunching under his shoes, leaving David to stare after him, waiting until he disappears inside for his head to fall back, eyes squeezing shut with a groan as he tries to push down the sudden surge of memory, struggling between his fingers.

* * *

"Well, I thought it was quite good" Justine says, as Ed rests his head on the glass, watching the platform move further and further away as the train pulls out. "I mean, Tania was actually-she and Carl are actually a very progressive couple, it was very interesting to talk to them-"

Ed counts to ten very slowly in his head, closes his eyes and breathes out slowly.

"When did you-er-when did you get to sleep?" he asks Justine suddenly, one of the thoughts of last night that he's been trying to push down suddenly springing back, leaving his heart pounding, a clammy nausea gripping his stomach.

"Last night?"

"Yeah." Ed opens his eyes, watching her, trying not to ask her again, sweat dampening his shirt under his arms.

"I don't know, about-I think about one or two, I wasn't-you weren't in bed yet, I don't think-"

Ed turns to look out of the window. "Do you remember me coming up-because I-I don't remember" he manages to say, a little too quickly, staring unseeingly out at the grey overcast morning now, head aching with the snatch of sleep he's had. "I don't remember what time I-"

"No, I-I don't think so, I was-I think I only woke up at about six-" Justine's leaning her face on her chin, looking out of the window. "Did you-er-were you down in the garden with-"

Ed's stomach nearly turns over. He can hear the car door shutting behind them again, the warmth of Cameron around him, their shirts crinkling, Cameron's laugh hot and half-gasped against his neck.

"Yeah" he says, turning back to the window. "Yeah, I was-I was in the garden."

* * *

David waits until Sam's doing a last check of the guest bedroom before they get the kids in the car to wander into the family room, where Tania's curled up on the couch, stroking Oli's hair, who's lying back with his headphones plugged in. Xan and Elwen are in the garden, kicking a ball back and forth, seemingly oblivious to the winces of the adults every time it smacks off the hot tub.

David takes in the sight of the hot tub, then looks away, wincing.

"How come you invited him, by the way?" he asks Tania, sitting on the arm of the chair, trying to ignore the faint dull throbbing behind his eyes.

It takes Tania a moment to lift her head. "Who?"

David doesn't look away from her. "Miliband."

Carl glances at him, then, giving Tania a squeeze with one arm, gets up tactfully, heading out of the doorway. David stares after him, then turns back to Tania. "Jesus, I wouldn't want to be one of his bloody patients. "Hello, you've got a vein blockage, I'm fucking off.""

"Language" Tania mutters, opening one eye and jerking her head towards Oli.

"All I'm saying, you don't want halfway through your cardiac arrest, the surgeon decides it's getting a bit awkward, fucks off out of the room, and makes you an espresso."

"You'd probably rear up from your coma for a fucking mochiatto."

"So we're forgetting the language problem."

Tania opens her eyes and stares at him. "I thought" she says, after a long silence. "That it would make you-you know, enjoy it."

David feels heat creep up his cheeks.

Tania's eyes are still half-closed but her eyebrow arches slightly. "Did you enjoy it?"

David looks straight back at her. "What did you think?"

Tania stretches. "Think that's pretty evident, Dave, I can't keep my bloody eyes open."

"You know what I mean."

Tania stops, opens her eyes slowly. David looks back at her.

"I kind of thought" Tania says slowly, watching him through half-opened eyes. "That you had a good time anyway."

David raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were watching."

Tania doesn't look away from him. David keeps his gaze as impassive as possible, his heart suddenly pounding.

"Dave" Tania says, her voice low and blurred but her eyes still sharp, narrowed slightly on his own. "Just be careful."

* * *

_Tania's party is in full swing when they arrive-David timed it deliberately, knowing that it will pull less attention to the four of them if everyone else has already made inroads into Carl's wine cellar. Tania's hug, snatched from her in the middle of jumping up and down to Tainted Love, tells him that it's been the right decision-he hasn't had to face any questions from her, yet._

_"Aren't they going to find this fucking weird?" Miliband's voice is a breath on the back of his neck, and David has to struggle to suppress a warm shiver down his spine._

_"What?" he says, at the bar set up in the corner, reaching for the champagne to save the bartenders a job._

_"That I'm here." David turns round to find Miliband standing a little too close, his dark eyes fixed on David. "In your sister's house."_

_David hesitates for just a moment, trying not to let his eyes roam up and down Miliband's suit, take in the slight jut of his hips._

_"No" he says, with a shrug of the shoulder. "Tania knows loads of people. Plenty from the champagne-socialist club."_

_Miliband inhales sharply. "For God's th-sake, I'm trying to-yeah, hilariouth" he mutters, as David places a glass of champagne in his hand, folding his fingers around it to ram the joke home. "Do you-do you fucking-"_

_"Look." David takes a sip of his own champagne, letting the bubbles rush to his head, takes a deep breath. "This-" He points around at the room, then gestures between him and Miliband. "This is nothing to do with us. OK?" He fixes his gaze on Miliband's. "Tania invited you. Not me. So this-no one's going to look at us, OK?"_

_Miliband arches an eyebrow. "You're very unfriendly."_

_"Fuck off, then, does that sound friendlier?" David nods at the champagne. "Cheers."_

_Miliband's mouth twitches into a slight, reluctant smirk as he takes a gulp of his champagne. David glances over his head. "Look, Sam and Justine are with-they're over there, with Tania-let's go and find the kids, just so I know where they are-I think they said something about the hot tub, above-ground pool-"_

_"A hot tub?" Miliband looks up sharply. "I don't have-"_

_"Neither do we." David takes another sip of champagne. "Don't worry, Tania's got a cupboard of spares-never know if it'll be warm enough to use the bloody thing. I mean, it's not, really, but the kids would go in it if it was bloody snowing-"_

_His hand gently presses between Miliband's shoulder blades, gesturing for him to go first, feels Miliband tense very slightly under his touch. Keeps his gaze firmly on his hand, each press of his fingers, watching to make sure he doesn't touch Miliband for any longer or lower than necessary._

* * *

"OK-" Tom sits up, lifts his hands. "OK, right-so-we're going to have the boys filmed walking with you while Landale chats-on their scooters-"

"Yeah-"

"And you're sure the scooters are pink?"

Rachel looks up at him across the table. "What the hell are you talking about? You've _seen_ the fucking things."

"I'm just fucking checking-"

"Yeah, it's fucking PC enough, the things are fucking pink, they look fine." Rachel glances at Justine, sitting next to her. "OK, we've pretty much chosen your top-"

"Yes, the-the blue-" Justine picks it up, where it's lying on the tablecloth. Ed, peering at it through the dull throbbing pain in his head that's stubbornly refusing to move despite the two paracetamol he swallowed the moment they got through the door, feels an odd nausea gripping his stomach-the sweater and black trousers are lying empty and crumpled on the table; from the wrong angle, they look oddly like a dead person.

"That'll look good" Tom confirms, glancing at Anna for reassurance, who snaps to attention, as though she hasn't been staring at her phone for the past five minutes. "It looks good, casual-on the side of ordinary people-get up for work, travel on the Tube-and we've got a back-up in case it doesn't fit on camera-"

"Yeah-" Rachel caps her pen. "Almost good enough to make everyone forget that you said he sees dead teenage girls as a happy stick to beat David Cameron round the head with."

Tom leans back in his chair, taking in a long breath. "We've fucking gone through this."

"Yes, we have." Rachel tucks her blonde bob behind her ears. "The press have gone through it. Mined it. And hammered it into everyone's fucking heads."

Ed stares at the tablecloth, mouth suddenly intensely dry. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying not to remember that PMQs. What happened afterwards.

"Yeah, well-" Tom glances down at the papers. "Better than you've managed to do with the economic policies-"

"Um-" Justine's glancing between them with the wide smile. "Would anyone like some-some tea or-"

"Um-" Rachel glances between Justine and Ed, as though reminding herself they're there. "Um-yeah-that would-that would be-"

"I'll-" Torsten holds up his hand, from where he's been sitting at the end of the table, apparently waiting for a moment to be useful. "I'll go and-"

"Oh-" Justine gives him a smile. "Thanks, Torstiekins-"

Rachel nearly chokes on her latte. Tom suddenly finds an urgent need to inspect his documents an inch away from his face. Ed tries to smile, the medicine-sweetness of the words forcing its' way between his teeth, leaving them so on edge he shudders.

Torsten makes himself scarce, perhaps thankful for the mission. Tom lowers the documents slowly, takes a deep breath, and then glances at Justine with considerable composure. "Right, we're going to go over what we've-the stuff we've got that you're going to be talked about-we definitely need to get the phone-hacking in-"

"Yeah, the-" Justine pulls the page of handwritten notes towards her. "The-thing about being in the car-"

"Yeah, it's a good call-back-" Tom glances at Ed. "Because Ed mentioned-mentioned your reaction in the speech at the time-"

"Yeah, I remember-"

"It's good to present you as-you know, a united front-" Tom glances between them. "And having both your focus be on principles-it helps to provide a contrast with Cameron, with the whole-ties into the speech about not being a good photograph-substance rather than style, contrast with the smoother image from Cameron's lot-"

"Sorry?" Justine glances at the notes again, then up at Tom. "Cameron's-"

Tom sighs. "Cameron's a PR guy. He knows how to spin things well-we're trying to contrast that with having some substance underneath it, make the election about principles-that's why we're going to need to bring up something about how Ed gets treated by the press-"

"Right, OK-" Justine's looking at the sheet. "Principles in political life-decency-it says-"

"Yeah, decency-"

"It say here, underlined yeah-"

"Yeah, decency-" Tom leans across the table. "That's one of the buzzwords we're trying to get across, so we've got to make sure we-"

"That I mention that, yeah."

"And the phone-hacking-"

"But don't use the word-we've decided not to mention-"

"Yeah-"

"Leveson by name-" Justine looks at Tom. "Because of the Jay conflict-"

"Just the phone-hacking-we're going to try and use it emotionally, rather than-the politics of it-so just-"

"Remember how-in-Marc was going through the old speeches the other night-he emailed some over-" Bob pulls out a sheet of paper covered in Sharpie marks. "He said-Ed said in his speech, back in 2011, when the news had just broken, that you'd said it was sick, the morning when you found out-"

"Yeah-"

"So-yeah, maybe just focus on that-"

"The emotion-"

"The emotional aspect of it-" Tom had scratched his head. "And that will-that will go across better-"

"Yeah, that should-that sounds-all right, yep, I can-" Justine glances at Ed next to her. "And the up for a fight thing-"

"Yeah, because that's been going down well, according to James-" Tom chews his pen. "You know, at the speech you gave at Mary Ward in summer, and back at-"

"At conference, OK-"

"So definitely-we need to get the phrase in-"

Justine glances at Ed, next to her. "Are you OK, sweetie?"

Ed tries not to flinch at the word.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm juth-st-" He glances up, manages to smile at Rachel and Tom. "Just conth-centrating on doing what I'm told-"

Justine smiles, squeezes his arm gently. Ed stares down at the table and tries not to pull away.

* * *

_"You look judgemental."_

_Ed glances over at Cameron, the words taking a few moments to sink through the haze of alcohol. He's only had a few drinks, but it's more than he usually has. Thinking about it, Ed can't remember the last time he drank this much. It probably doesn't help that instead of beer that makes his mouth cringe with sourness, the wine's been crisp and dry on his tongue, and he's forgotten whether he had four or five glasses of it._

_"What?"_

_Cameron nudges him. Or Ed thinks he does, very slightly. The sound of the children's voices, clashing together, from the hot tub, only a few feet from them, seems much further away. He can make out Nancy in the water, the steam rising into the cold night air, Elwen and Xan-Ed thinks it's Xan, his name, he's not sure-ducking each other next to her._

_"You look very, very judgemental. Like you're finding it incredibly difficult to look at that hot tub and not judge my sister for being rich."_

_Ed looks up sharply. "I'm not judging your sister."_

_"But you're judging me." Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly. Ed looks at him, his vision clearing more._

_"I didn't th-say that."_

_"You've never had to."_

_Ed grips his glass tightly, the words seeming to get stuck in his throat. "Where's-" He wracks his brain, suddenly remembering who he saw Cameron holding last. "Florenthe-where's-"_

_"Oh, Flo? She's upstairs, she crashed out with the girls." When Ed blinks Cameron laughs. "Molly, Emma, Iris-"_

_"Oh!" Ed was introduced to them earlier-he'd had a confused image of Clare pressing her cheek to his very quickly, a blonde-haired, chubby-cheeked baby nestled in her arms that had extended her arms to him with a happy, loud gurgle, two other little girls twining around her legs with hair so blonde it almost looked silver, big eyes looking up out of oval little faces so similar Ed had thought for a moment he was looking at twins._

_"Yeah, the little ones have crashed out upstairs-" Cameron laughs, taking another gulp of his wine. "Had to towel-dry Florence's hair while she was asleep, she was nearly out before I'd got her out of her swimming costume-" He'd jerked his head at the pool. "Are you going in when the kids get out?"_

_"I thought you thought I was judging it?"_

_Cameron laughs, but suddenly without much humour. "Well" he says, looking at Ed over the rim of his wineglass, before he tilts it to his lips to drain the last drops, "that doesn't mean you won't use it, does it?"_

_Ed looks up at him sharply. "What does that mean?"_

* * *

"Back in a tick" Torsten calls through the doorway with a grin, then sticks his middle finger up at the kitchen door. "If she calls me Torstiekins one more time-"

Anna looks up from her phone from where she's leaning against the cabinet. "You should be easier on her."

"Yeah, I know you would happily lick Justine's feet when you're in front of her-" Torsten grabs the kettle, filling it at the tap. "Hell, you practically begged at Ed's to get him not to have your job flushed down the drain-"

"Oh, because your career was just-fucking fantastic before Ed plucked you into his office-"

"Yeah." Torsten flicks the kettle on and turns to her with a smile. "I actually had one."

Anna stares at him, mouthing helplessly. Torsten smiles and turns back to the cupboard, yanking out several mugs at once. "God above, is this what they're going to be filmed _drinking_ out of?"

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're just-fucking-blandtastic."

"Yeah, well, that's perfect." Anna glances at the cups from under her mess of curls. "It'll look down-to-earth next to Cameron's massive fucking kitchen island."

Torsten glances around the kitchen. "It's a bit depressing."

"Yeah, so are most people's kitchens. Most people don't have a fucking surname like Henricson-Bell, Torstiekins."

"Yeah, yeah, we know, you crawl around Justine's feet because she's the one beacon of hope in your life-God, this-" He laughs. _"This_ is the one beacon of hope in your life."

He opens the fridge, pulls out the milk. "Literally, you practically cream yourself every time you mention that it's so amazing that someone from an _ordinary background_ in Nottingham has managed to become a lawyer, because it gives you some vague hope that one day you too might get to slap an important label on your chest like _Downing Street Adviser."_

"Piss off."

Torsten grins. "Because a part of you's still dwelling back at King Alfred Academy and you don't feel quite good enough, which is why you're still getting called a bully by the _Times_ journalists."

Anna mouths at him.

Torsten heads to the door, pops his head back round. " Justine went to private school, by the way. She's just as rich as the rest of them."

* * *

"So-that was _The Election-"_ Justine looks at Daniel and Sam who are sitting next to her, closing the picture book, Ed at the other end of the sofa. "Do either of you have-any questions you want to ask about it?"

Daniel, who's sitting next to Ed, wriggles forward on the sofa, peering at the book again. "The Spotty Party-and The Stripy Party-"

"Yes?" Justine lets the book fall open again, the brightly-coloured pages spilling out across her hands like paint.

Daniel looks up, as Sam splays his hand on the page, flexing his fingers, burbling to himself in his baby language. Justine looks at him, willing him to separate the sounds into separate words.

"Which one are we?" Daniel shifts closer to Sam, pulling his hand further across the page.

"Which one are we?" Ed shifts closer to Daniel, as though he's about to put his arm around his shoulders.

"Well, we're not the Spotty Party _or_ the Stripy Party-" Justine nearly touches Daniel's shoulder a couple of times, before managing to pat him for his attention. "We're-they're an analogy, really-"

"He doesn't-" Ed shakes his head at her over Daniel's. "He doesn't know what that is-"

"Alex strip-strip-y-y-" Sam burbles at the page.

"We're the Red Team" Justine tells Daniel, who's not looking at her anymore. "Daddy's the leader of the Red Team, remember?"

"And Mr Cameron's team is the Blue Team" Ed tells him, as Daniel lets himself fall back against the back of the sofa, nearly blowing a raspberry. "Because-just in case James asks you about it, tomorrow-"

"Because, remember, we're going to be being filmed to help Daddy run the Red Team" Justine tells them, trying to pull Sam's hand away from his mouth, where he's sucking at his thumb. "Don't do that, Sam, that's for little ones-"

"Yeah, and we're jutht going to go to the park-" Ed glances at her, as though looking for guidance.

"Yes, so we're just going to go to the park after school-" Justine glances back at them both, neither of the boys looking at her. "And we'll-we'll have a walk through the park, all together, and some people are going to film you-you can go on your scooters-"

"Yes, we'll-we'll come and get you from school with your scooters-"

"You and Mummy?" Daniel turns to frown up at him, as though sensing a trick.

"Yes-"

"You and Mummy never get us from school." Daniel turns back to the book.

"Well, tomorow, we'll come and get you. Like a special treat." Justine reaches out and taps Daniel on the nose awkwardly, watches it wrinkle as Daniel leans back a little.

"Yeah, and then, after we've been to the park, Mummy's going to do an interview in a cafe, sweetie-" Tom had picked it out earlier today-it's a local cafe, Turkish. Justine's been past it a lot of times, but they've never been in.

"But you can come back to the house-"

"Yes, we-we spoke to Mr White , sweetie-" Ed taps Sam's head awkwardly. "And he said he could come over with Betsy to play-"

Sam shrugs at the news of his nursery classmate coming over-Tom, after interrogating Zia for names the children usually played with, had carefully chosen a couple of their friends to be invited over to keep them occupied, on the basis that Sam, Betsy's father, has helped out at the school before, and is generally pretty supportive of the party, and Aaron's mum is even more involved, often helping out with leafleting.

"And Aaron as well" Justine tells Daniel. "So you-you can take them downstairs with Zia while Mummy and Daddy chat with their friends up here."

"That'll be fun" Ed tells him. "You can-Zia can make you all some tea before they go home as well-"

"But only if you're good." Justine reaches to tap Daniel's nose again but decides against it. "Just so-remember, Mister, we need you to be good when you're being filmed. Because we're part of the Red Team, remember, so-we need people to see Daddy-"

"So that they vote for us." Ed taps the book. "Like in the book. So that people want us to run the country, remember?"

"So if James-" Justine taps Daniel's shoulder until he looks at her. "When James talks to you-or you get-when we need you to look at the camera-that's all you need to do, just make sure we have big smiles, OK?"

Daniel gives a half-shrug, which Justine takes to mean he's understood.

"And I could tell you a Booboo and Heehee story tonight" Ed says.

"Yeah-" Justine taps Sam's shoulder. "See, Daddy could-Daddy could tell you a story-"

"We already told one-"

"Well, Daddy can tell you another one-if-as a reward, for being good tomorrow." Justine taps Sam's nose. "I think you deserve a reward if you're good with the cameras tomorrow."

Sam giggles uncertainly. Daniel stares at the bright colours of the book, stabbing his finger hard into the page, as though he could climb into the picture.

* * *

_Justine turns round, as someone small bumps into her back. She's nursing the first glass of wine, feeling it warm between her hands, reluctant to drink it too fast. Samantha had been sitting next to her, chatting easily to some of the others, but Justine had made an excuse to go and get a second glass of wine, though she hasn't finished the first._

_At the parties with the people she and Ed knows, the talk usually turns to politics sooner or later. Here, it hasn't come up in over two hours, and it feels odd to Justine, like listening to a song with a verse taken out._

_"Oh-" She looks down, blinks at the sight of Elwen, in swimming trunks and what looks like a snorkel. "Hello-"_

_"Oh, hi-" Elwen blinks up at her with all the confidence of his father. "Sorry-"_

_Justine gives him a smile. She's never been entirely easy with children-something about the hugeness of their eyes, the way they stare at you, so credulous that they might almost go the other way and not believe you. She pats at their shoulders, deals with the outer edges of them._

_"You're-" She takes in the sight of Elwen's hair, plastered to his head._

_"We've been in the pool" Elwen says brightly, holding, Justine now notices, a paper plate under his arm. "But we had to come in for food. They don't want us playing out in the cold."_

_"But you're in the-"_

_"It's a hot tub."_

_"Oh." Elwen's slightly older than Justine's children-she doesn't think either Daniel or Sam are at the age where they can hold a proper conversation yet. She tries, when she's there, but it's hard to maintain interest in their still-unclear babble, the sort of meandering stories that only make sense to small children._

_"Have you had anything to eat?" Elwen asks politely, his head tilting to the side. Justine blinks, slightly taken aback when she contrasts Elwen with Daniel's silence when she tries to ask him a question._

_"Er-yeah-" She has-the array of food spread out by the caterers is stuff you'd find in a top restaurant, which is probably where it's come from. At the usual sort of events Justine goes to, whenever they have similar food, there's always a slight awkwardness about it, people glancing at each other as though asking permission to enjoy it, bringing up their latest charity run or equality initiative as though that might take a column off the price tag._

_"Er-" She becomes aware that she'd probably be best running the conversation with a child. "Er-have you eaten anything?"_

_Elwen beams. "Yeah, they've got loads. Didn't Daniel and Sam come?"_

_Justine blinks, surprised he remembers their names. She'd supposed he must have filtered them out, the way she had the names of Alex's friends when they were children._

_"Um-no, I think the invitation said it was just-just family kids-" She probably wouldn't have brought them anyway-it's different when they've been specficially invited, but Justine has always generally presumed they'd prefer to be left at home._

_"Oh, yeah."_

_"Don't-your-your mummy and daddy usually get you someone-get you a babysitter, when it's-"_

_Elwen's brow creases slightly. "Nope" he answers succinctly, before giving her a wave and running back to the buffet table, aiming for a tray of profiteroles, leaving Justine to stare after him._

* * *

"No one panic" says Craig, holding his hands up. "This could actually be quite good."

David frowns. "When you say that, it makes us panic."

"OK." Alan shoves a phone in front of them. "I would like both of you to watch this video and then just-give me your thoughts."

David glances at George, who shrugs, warily, and back at the frozen screen as Alan slowly presses the Play button.

A pop song blasts out of the screen, making both David and George reel back. "Jesus fucking Christ-"

"Sorry." Alan holds up his hands. "Advert."

Craig hits the Skip button. "OK-and here-"

"It's from Sky News?"

The screen freezes for a moment, before an image of George appears behind a podium.

"OK, that's-"

The image starts to speak.

"I am the man-the man-" Different images of George are flashing across the screen, too quickly to pause. "The man with a _plan-"_

David stares at it.

"Fix the economy-yes, I can-" George seems to have a Union Jack behind his head. "Balance the books-Britain can do better-"

David glances at George. George glances at him.

"Because I am the Chancellor-of-the Exchequer-"

George-on-screen nods. Balls appears.

"Oi-you-"

George is back. "Who-me?"

"Yes, you-" Balls flickers on and off screen like a blink. "I-I want-to be Chancellor too-"

George-on-screen does not look as though he shares this assessment.

"A-plan-for the many-not the privileged few-" Balls' head is in a new position every few seconds. "This is what our-Labour budget will do-"

The George-on-screen looks suicidally sad. David almost wants to hug it.

Then his own face appears.

"Balls-Ed-like George said-"

David can't even tell which conference it's from.

"If you want Britain sorted, talk to me instead-"

David's on-screen self is gesturing happily.

"We're on the road to prosperity, we are on the right track-we will see the job through-"

The George-on-screen looks as though he's had a Samaritans call.

"And get back into the black!"

Balls-on-screen undergoes an identity crisis and claps.

"Who is he trying to _kid-"_

Oh God, no.

On-screen Miliband's clapping himself. Even on-screen Miliband has to clap _himself._

"The-deck-is- _stacked_ -the game is _rigged-"_

Miliband's hand is bouncing up and down.

"In-favour-of those-who have all the power-"

David wonders briefly if he's still in bed and this whole thing is some sort of bizarrely realistic, acid-induced dream.

"We will raise the minimum wage to over £8 an hour-"

" _FIXING-"_

George nearly jumps out of his skin as Nick's voice bellows out of the screen.

_"FIXING-"_

George's on-screen self claps away happily.

_"FIXING-"_

David on a building site. Fantastic.

"Fixing Britain's shattered economy-"

The on-screen George is doing what resembles a plie.

_"FIXING-"_

It doesn't stop. No matter how hard you stare, it doesn't stop.

_"FIXING-"_

Then Miliband bounces in his seat, and you wish it hadn't stopped.

_"FIXING-"_

Miliband claps.

Then George's red box on the screen.

"Fixing Britain's shattered economy-"

On the screen, appear the white letters THE BUDGET. Then, in smaller letters, Wednesday March 18th.

Someone hits what sounds like a triangle and the sound rings out triumphantly through the room.

David and George sit in silence, looking at the screen.

"Well." Alan glances from one to the other. "Who wants to watch it again?"

George sucks his bottom lip. "I need to decide if I've made enough in the will for the kids first."

David squints at the title. The Sky News Budget Rap Battle.

"Sky News spent their time doing this?" He glances at George. "And the broadcasters wonder why we all want to shut them down."

"It was better than last year's" Craig offers, as a recompense.

George is still staring at the screen. "Why was I dancing?"

"Oh, yeah." David leans back. "When they did the-"

"They gave Miliband the stutter-"

""C-c-c-cost-""

"Yeah-"c-c-c-cost-""

""We're all in this togetherr _rr-""_

"I never worked out if that was an error or he was _meant_ to sound drugged-"

George is still staring, shaking his head slowly. "Why was I dancing?"

"Nick would have liked that one better, though-"

David lifts his finger and drops it. "" _Down-""_

_""Down-""_

""Get the deficit _down-""_

""For the sun-"" Craig spreads his arms. ""Has started to _rise_ above the hill-""

""We've got two tins of beans and a loaf of bread." Alan pauses, deadpan. _""And that's it.""_

"Balls sounded better on that one" Craig points out.

"Yeah, because he sounded like him. _"Bothered, bothered, couldn't give a toss-""_

George is still shaking his head slowly, his voice faint. "Why-" He stares at the screen, bewildered, as though it might answer his question. "Why was I dancing?"

David laughs, loudly enough to stop his hand from reaching for his phone for the seventh time this morning, stop himself from seeing yet again that Miliband hasn't texted him back.

* * *

"So this is where the revolution's taking place, is it?" Rachel asks. "Fucking Hampstead Heath?"

Bob elbows her in the ribs, as he heads over to where Matthew's talking to the BBC camera crew. "It doesn't look like Hampstead Heath."

"Yeah, and everyone knows he lives in Dartmouth Park." Tom spreads his hands. "This is us saying "Look, we know he's rich and you think people who're rich are wankers, but even though he's rich, he's not a wanker.""

Rachel blinks. "I literally understood about two words of that."

"Yeah, well, you're not an ordinary voter."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Have you forgotten whose kid you are?" Tom's more on edge than normal, stamping his feet slightly-he and Bob only just arrived with Matthew in the car, after a day of driving round filming-Ed's travelling with Stewart to the boys' school to collect them and Justine.

"Yeah, Tom, I actually _did_ just forget my own dad's name."

"Then you're not an ordinary voter."

"Oh, right." Rachel turns to him, stamps her feet slightly, wraps her arms around herself. "So, when you were-er-snorting coke off a table at those flat parties with Michael Gove slapping you on the back, was that you being an ordinary voter-"

Tom's hand fastens on her arm. Rachel wrenches it away.

"Shut the fuck up." Tom's voice is low, each word jammed out through clenched teeth. "Are you trying to fucking crash his campaign before it's even fucking started?"

"I think you've managed that well enough." Rachel arches an eyebrow. "Maybe you've been hanging out with Steve Hilton too much-even Cameron got rid of him-"

"All right." Bob shoves an arm between them. "All right-everyone just-shut the fuck up, pack the fucking drama away, we've got fucking-drama enough-"

"Anna's coming then?"

"Shut up."

Rachel sniffs. "So Matthew's over there-er-Stewart's with Ed, and James and Patrick are meeting us at the house-"

"Yeah-"

"Is Ed getting the boys straight from school?"

"Yeah. With a change of clothes."

Rachel grimaces. "So we're about to get those kids changed into new clothes and prance them down the path on scooters, and then say Cameron's the PR politician?"

"Look." Tom holds out a hand. "Justine and the kids-people respond better to them than to Ed. Way better. And Cameron's kids are already being filmed, he can't say fucking anything-"

"Cameron's kids' _faces_ aren't going to be shown, fuck, they're not even shown when they're spotted _out_ with him, Downing Street would blow IPSO higher than the fucking-Empire State Building-"

"It adds to the family image. That it's a joint effort-it worked for the Clintons-"

Rachel stares at him. "Ed's not Bill Clinton. He's not even Al fucking Gore."

"But you are Neil Kinnock's daughter."

"Why don't you go and see if you can shove half your nose back in."

* * *

_Samantha's leaning on his shoulder, the water bubbling around them. David's got his arm around her shoulders, her hair fastened back into a bun. The older children are stretched out on the sofas inside, a DVD of Mean Girls playing away to the room. The little ones are upstairs, tucked up in bed, David having checked on them before getting in the water._

_He's trying to concentrate on the bubbles tickling his skin, Sam's hair brushing his hand, through the haze of several glasses of wine. Tania's sitting on Carl's knee, who, being the least drunk of the party, has taken on the responsibility of passing round the champagne, along with iced water for anyone who needs to sober up._

_"How come Alex didn't make it?" Clare asks suddenly, from across the tub._

_"Holiday" Tania murmurs. "And Gus is at Bristol."_

_"Uni. First year-" Samantha chips in, glancing at Clare. "He had a gap year last-do you reckon he-"_

_"Got a tattoo-"_

_"He'd better bloody not" Carl chips in fairly. "Sarah would bloody kill him."_

_"Mine's not that bad" Sam had pointed out. "I mean, if you look at it-"_

_She'd lifted her leg out of the water, letting the dolphin wave at them. "It's nowhere you could see-"_

_"Where did you get it done?" Justine's staring at the dolphin with something resembling both wariness and fascination._

_"In Indonesia" Samantha explains, leg sinking below the water again. "Clare and I went there on our gap year-"_

_"Right-"_

_"And I decided, because it was the only one I was getting, to make sure it counted. Which somehow meant it hurt-God, it hurt a hell of a lot-"_

_"I remember" Clare says, extending her own ankle. On hers' is a tiny black star, barely visible._

_"They are pretty small" Carl points out, as Jem climbs back into the tub, hair dripping wet, and slides down next to Clare. "I mean, for eighteen-year-olds, it was pretty sensible."_

_"Don't bloody say that in front of Nancy" David had muttered, glancing back at the house. "She already wants to go to Wilderness next summer."_

_He tries focusing very hard on Nancy. Or on the conversation. Or on anything, but who's on his other side._

_"Yeah, but if-you know, if she goes with us-"_

_"I always think that" Tania chips in, raising her head slightly. "If they get-if they get used to going to festivals and stuff when they're young, the appeal of it-"_

_"Wears off, yeah-it's less forbidden-"_

_"I mean, they like Cornbury" Sam chips in. "But that's got loads of stuff for the kids-"_

_"In New York-" Clare glances at Justine. "Because we live by Brooklyn, there's loads of live stuff for the kids-I mean, there's always busking and things-"_

_"Yeah, I can-I can imagine, yeah-"_

_"So it's pretty lively there, but-I guess it's about making sure they're provided for-"_

_"Nance does like the music-" Sam had glanced at Dave. "Nance does enjoy the songs and things-do you remember you taking her to the Bangles when she was about three, four?"_

_"Was that at Cornbury?" David can't remember if it was that or at one of the Food And Drink Festivals, where they'd bumped into Alex and his kids._

_"I think so-"_

_"We took the boys to the Miners' Gala once-" Justine glances at Ed. "Do you remember, back when they were-Sam was still in his buggy-"_

_"Right-"_

_"And that had quite a lot of things for kids, which was a bit of a surprise, remember?"_

_David feels his heart quicken slightly, awareness prickling up his body._

_"Yeah." Ed's voice is, thankfully, normal-at least he's answered. He hasn't just immediately thrown himself out of the tub, the way David had thought he might when he first appeared, looking nervous enough that David had had to look away to stop his arms from moving around Ed's shoulders before he could stop himself._

_Ed had even kept a towel round his shoulders until he slid into the hot tub, then aimed a glare at David. David was pretty sure it was a glare, anyway. Everyone's drunk a lot, apart from Carl._

_Perhaps that was why Ed hadn't realised until he was already in the hot tub that he and David would be sitting next to each other. David had practically felt the moment that realisation hit him, the way he'd stilled, his leg an inch away from David's._

_(David had felt that inch. Really felt it, just how far he'd have to move to-)_

_Now, David's becoming more and more aware of his own heartbeat, the heat of the water. The fact that if he tilts his foot very slightly, it brushes Ed's ankle._

_He almost feels Ed's breath catch in his chest, the sharp little intake at the shock of contact._

_David pulls his leg away, unsure of what he even thought he was doing. His arm tightens momentarily around Sam's shoulders, and he thinks about turning and burying his face in her hair, holding onto her, even as Justine's voice chatters on._

_"So-it actually turned out-I mean, it was a bit rainy, and the kids got a bit upset, but overall-"_

_Ed's thigh presses against his own._

_David has to hold his breath. He waits, very still, heartbeat suddenly audible._

_"The girls-in New York, they love the street fairs and things" Clare's saying, as though nothing unusual's happening, as though Miliband's leg isn't moving away, as though it's not pressing closer, and God, what's he doing, whatthehellishedoing, whatthehellishedoing, ohGoddon'tstopdon'tstop-_

_"We thought it'd get tiring at first-" Clare's saying. "Because New York's such a hectic place-"_

_"Yeah-"_

_"But in Brooklyn, in the brownstones, it's a lot artsier, it's not-it's not as intimidating as Manhattan-"_

_Ed's hand is on David's thigh and David's face is so hot that he can't even think straight and his heart is pounding and he can measure how close Ed's fingers must be to his-to his-_

_David nearly groans out loud._

_Then Ed's hand squeezes and he nearly gasps at the jolt it sends through him._

_"So we actually found the move a lot easier-"_

_"Yeah-"_

_"Than we thought it would be" says Clare, as Ed's hand moves back, almost darting, as though surprised at its' own daring._

_David waits, counting to three slowly in his head, then glances at him. Miliband's staring away from him, chin tilted up almost defiantly._

_"And, I suppose, the girls are more used to there than here now, they were so little when we moved-I mean, Iris was born there-" Clare's speaking and people are listening and Tania's napping on Carl's shoulder, and Sam's hair's tickling David's face, and Ed's eyes dart once briefly to his, one snatched glance, and then they snap away again, even as David stares at him, at that look that was angry and challenging and frightened all at once._

* * *

"Right-" Justine's sitting in the back of the car-Ed glances at her in the rearview mirror, the boys sitting on either side of her. Stewart's driving-Tom and Bob thought it would be best to come in his own car, to look more down to earth. They'd met Justine at the school gates, where she'd been standing with Daniel and Sam, who'd been collected fifteen minutes early, just in case any cameras had got wind of the fact they'd be doing the filming today. The boys had been fidgeting, the change in routine making them wriggle, slightly confused by the change of outfits Justine had brought down to the school with them-she'd taken them to get changed in the toilets before ushering them out to the waiting car-"I'm a governor" she'd pointed out to Stewart. "They knew me, so it was fine."

"Remember, this is about Daddy's job, isn't it?" Justine taps Daniel's nose awkwardly in the mirror-Daniel shakes his head, making the hood of his khaki coat fall down. "It's about helping Daddy to run the country-"

"Yeah, and James is only going to ask Mummy and Daddy some questions, remember?" Ed turns round to Sam, who's sitting behind him, staring out of the window under his dark curls, lost in his own world. "Do you remember what it's called?"

"Who can tell me what it's called?" Justine says, looking from one of her sons to the other. "Do you remember?"

"It's an _interview"_ Ed tells them, stressing the word, turning round in the front seat. "Remember, what that means? Mummy's going to-they're going to ask Mummy questions-"

"Yeah, they're going to ask me questions and I'm going to answer them" Justine says to Daniel. "And remember, you just need to be good and look at-the camera when the people filming tell you to-and then it'll be on the television tomorrow-"

"Yeah" Ed manages, trying to give his voice a bounce. "You can show your friends at school tomorrow."

Daniel kicks his legs slightly, without saying anything. Sam makes a gurgling sound.

"So we're-" Stewart glances at him. "We're taking the boys home after the interview, right, and we're-Rachel and Anna are going with Justine to the cafe for her interview, and-"

"Yeah, Aaron and Betsy are going to-Zia's going to be there, and I'll-we'll take the boys home and get set up for the home shots-"

"And they'll probably want to hear about it, won't they?" Justine says, turning to Sam, apparently giving up on attracting Daniel's attention from the window. "You'll be able to tell Betsy about all the cameras-"

Ed leans against the window, trying not to tug at his thumbnail with his teeth. James had travelled to the Heath separately from them, to give him and Stewart time to talk over the strategy, but they'd already visited Haverstock earlier in the day, walking up and down the street a few times outside to make sure the shots were right. Chris, Ed's old teacher, had been only too happy to sit and chat with them for a quick interview-he's appeared at events for the party before so he'd been a pretty safe bet.

"But you-you say you can hold your own-"

"Yes-"

"I mean, what does that-" James' voice had been easy, casual, as though he'd been sitting in classrooms with brick walls and peeling paint like Haverstock's his whole life, instead of wandering around Eton's courtyards. Something had seized tight in Ed's chest at the sheer ease of it. "What does that _mean?"_

"Well, it means I didn't really get beaten up." His voice had been tight, but he'd managed to laugh. It had used to play well, talking about Haverstock being a tough environment, but Tom's been wanting them to play it down a little. "Just focus on the diversity of the comp, thing. Sounds like we're saying all comprehensives are boxing rings full of first-trimester pregnancies."

"Doesn't it say something for social mobility?" Ed had tried to argue.

Tom had fixed him with a long stare. "People don't really want to think of their Prime Minister getting beaten up."

"It's not like I was" Ed had tried to say, but Tom had stared at him a moment longer and Ed had looked away.

"You know, I-" Ed had managed to laugh slightly, his voice tight.

"But why is-"

" I sort of-gave as good as I get-" Ed tripped over the present tense slightly, heat creeping uncomfortably up his cheeks.

"But why is that, is that because you could argue with them-"

Ed managed to laugh.

"Or because you'd fight them-"

"I'd-th-speak to them-" Ed almost winced at the words.

"Or-" James was already speaking. "Or because you had a big _brother-"_

Ed had felt something go still inside him, like reaching the edge of a cliff. James had still been talking, his voice relaxed, smooth, and Ed had managed to sit still in his chair, eyes pulled away from the photographs scattered on the table, none of which contained David.

Now, Ed glances at Stewart, then tenses as his phone buzzes against his chest. He pulls it out, and feels himself swallow at the sight of Cameron's name. He shoves the phone back into his pocket, and presses his hands together, skin suddenly clammy, despite the early March chill in the air.

* * *

_"What the hell was that?" David's hair is still drenched, droplets of water creeping down into the open collar of his shirt. His cheeks are still flushed pink from the heat of the hot tub, his eyes even bluer. "What the fuck were you doing?"_

_"You liked it." Ed's voice is uneasy, wavering, but with the hint of a laugh in it, clambering out of control._

_"Jesus Christ, Miliband." Cameron glances over his shoulder, lets his hand fasten in Ed's shirt sleeve, steers him round the side of the house. Ed lets him, his legs scrambling slightly to keep up, the world lurching slightly around him, shimmering in the corners of his eyes. "My bloody family's there."_

_Ed laughs. Or he thinks he laughs. "Your family" he mutters, leaning his head back against the wall._

_"Yeah, my family." Cameron stares at him, then leans his forehead on one hand. "Jesus, you're pissed."_

_It seems funny so Ed laughs again, slumping back against the wall._

_Cameron stares at him, and then he takes his shoulders, carefully straightens him up, even as Ed stumbles and nearly falls into his chest. "Jesus, Miliband, you need to stand up-"_

_Ed kisses him, hands pushing into Cameron's cheeks, kissing him roughly, open-mouthed._

_"Miliband-" Cameron half-splutters into his mouth, pulling back. "Miliband-" His eyes are bright, his mouth a deep, rosy pink. "Miliband, Jesus-"_

_"What?" Ed's voice cracks. "You're the one who usually starts it."_

_Cameron stares at him for a long moment, and then grabs his wrist. For a moment, Ed really thinks David might be going to hit him._

_Then David tugs his arm hard, making Ed stumble._

_"You're coming with me" is all he says, but his arm slides around Ed's waist for a moment, letting him fall into his side, holding him up._

* * *

_The slam of the car door behind them makes Ed's head tilt slightly, and he stares at David, blinking in the sudden near-darkness of the back of the family car._

_"What are we doing?" He blinks at the tinted windows, which make the world around them seem even darker, the lights from up the driveway seeming to blink at him, making his head hurt a little._

_"Letting you sober up." Cameron leans his head on his hands, resting against the back of the seat in front of them. "What the fuck were you doing, Miliband?"_

_Ed shrugs, feeling colour flood his cheeks, his forehead furrowing in a scowl. "You looked-"_

_He can't find the word, and he slumps down into his seat again, muttering something unintelligible even to him. Cameron cocks his head, staring at him._

_"I looked-?" His voice is a little too loud, and Ed winces, clapping his hands over his head, before remembering where his ears are._

_"Jesus, you can't hold your drink." Cameron reaches over and gently holds his face between his hands, forcing Ed to focus his gaze on him. "You said I looked-"_

_Ed, gaze still wavering slightly, jabs Cameron in the cheek. Cameron sighs, grabbing his hand, holding it still. "Miliband-"_

_"Th-smooth."_

_Cameron blinks. "What?"_

_Ed snorts, pulling away from him, wrapping his own arms around himself. "Th-smooth. Like nothing-nothing fucking touches you." He's suddenly almost blurting the words out, half-shouting them, his voice far too loud in the enclosed space of the back of the car. "You're jutht th-sitting there and-nothing fucking touches you, and-and-you-"_

_"Shhh." Cameron hushes him, glancing around, though the driveway's long enough for Ed to think it could count as a walk. "For fuck's sake, what do you mean, nothing fucking touches me-"_

_"Well, it doesn't." Ed's voice splinters in the air between them. "Look at you. You're like- Teflon or something-"_

_Cameron's mouth, unbelievably, curls. "I think that's your former leader you're thinking of."_

_"Shut up." Ed turns, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, willing it to stop banging. "Shut up. Jutht-th-stop talking." He squeezes his eyes shut, as though he could crawl into the space behind them and disappear. "Why did you invite me here tonight?"_

_Cameron is silent for a long moment. Ed slowly turns round to look at him, feeling oddly shaky, as though he might burst into tears at any moment._

_"I didn't invite you here tonight" Cameron says slowly, eventually, looking Ed straight in the eye. "Tania did. I told you that."_

_Ed blinks. "Why?"_

_Cameron shrugs. "You'll have to ask her."_

_Ed pushes the impossibility of this away. "Fine. Fine." He wrenches at the car door handle. "That'th fine. If you don't want-" He tugs again. "What the-what the-th-stop jutht th-sitting there and-what'th wrong with-"_

_Cameron's mouth twitches, very slightly. "Child door locks."_

_Ed glowers at him, falling back into his seat._

_"And I don't not want you here" Cameron says, much more softly, looking straight ahead this time. "I'm happy you're here."_

_Ed snorts. "Doesn't look like it."_

_Cameron glances at him. "What, so-you wanted to get my attention, so you-fucking groped me in front of half my family-"_

_Ed flinches at the word._

_So does Cameron, at almost the exact same moment. "Not groped, I didn't bloody mean-"_

_"Yeth, you did." Ed's eyes are dry, his voice tight._

_"Miliband." Cameron's hand is on his arm, and Ed can't pull away. "You know damn well I didn't."_

_Ed shrugs, feeling himself pout, hating that he likes the touch of Cameron's hand on his arm._

_"So-you were trying to get my attention?" Cameron asks again, almost tentatively, after several moments of silence._

_Not get your attention, Ed thinks bitterly._

_"No. Or-yeah, but-not get your-just get your-get your- anything, that'th the thing, anything-" The words are falling out of his mouth, the alcohol thickening the letters, making him trip over them. "You don't have anything-nothing toucheth you, nothing fucking-you could jutht th-sit there, in that pool, with me like it wath anywhere and you-"_

_He turns away, the words stuck and aching in his throat, but he can still feel Cameron's gaze._

_"So what do you want me to do?" Cameron's voice is lighter now, almost mocking. "What do you want me to-be more bothered by the-the mere fact of your presence?"_

_"Jutht shut up" Ed spits out._

_There's another moment of silence. Then, "I know you're there, all right?"_

_Ed waits, letting the words sink in. Then, he turns round. "What?"_

_Cameron looks back at him. He pulls a coat from the seat round himself, and with his shirt hidden away, he doesn't look Prime Ministerial._

_He just looks....well.....like Cameron. Presumably as he is without all the titles. Just a guy in his late 40s. Hair combed over the receding patch. Chubby, rosy cheeks. Blue eyes._

_He's gorgeous. The thought hits Ed like a punch._

_"I know you're there." Cameron's voice is smaller, and this time he's the one to look away._

_Ed stares at him, and then hears his own voice, so small and thin and something horribly like hopeful that he almost can't stand that it's his own at all, "Did you like it?"_

_Cameron's shoulders rise and fall sharply. His jaw tenses._

_He doesn't look at Ed, but he says quietly, staring at the car window, "You know I did."_

_Ed feels his heart, thumping below his throat. Slowly, acting on instinct, he slides a few inches further along the seat, his breaths quivering, until he's an inch away from Cameron._

_Cameron tenses. Ed can hear his breathing. Feel him breathing._

_Slowly, very slowly, Ed lifts his finger until it touches Cameron's cheek. Cameron's breathing quickens, as Ed's finger moves slowly back and forth, over and over, watching the way Cameron's skin gently dents beneath his touch, before springing back into place._

_He could scratch or stroke. Dig his nail in or cup his cheekbone._

_Hurt him._

_Or-_

_Ed's heart is pounding, pounding hard enough to hurt, as he leans in, slowly. He presses his lips to Cameron's cheek in a butterfly kiss. He stays there, mouth pressed against Cameron's skin. He feels Cameron shudder against him, and his eyes are closed, feeling suddenly as though he's peeling Cameron's skin back, peering between his ribs, just through his mouth against his skin._

_He kisses again, needing to move. Again, down Cameron's cheek. Again, to the corner of his mouth._

_"Mili." Cameron's voice is a breath and Ed barely has time to register the shortened name, before he's sliding his hands into Cameron's hair and he's pressing his mouth to Cameron's in a soft, short kiss, both of them gasping for breath._

_They stare at each other for a long moment, both of them blinking, before Ed stamps his mouth into Cameron's again, before he can say anything, and Cameron murmurs "Miliband-"_

_Ed's hands slide into his hair, and he kisses him harder, feeling Cameron's mouth open, soft and warm, and he murmurs "I thought you said we weren't-we weren't going to do this-"_

_Ed keeps kissing him. "Shut up" he murmurs, and he presses his mouth to Cameron's every few words. "Shut up-" A kiss to his mouth. "Shut up-" A kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Shut up-"_

_Cameron almost laughs, a wild little sound escaping against Ed's mouth, and Ed's pulling his legs up under him onto the seat, and then Cameron's hand is pressing into his back, pulling Ed between his knees._

_"Here-" Ed nearly slips, his head falling onto his shoulder, and David laughs._

_"Fuck-come here, come here-" His hands brace themselves on Ed's hips, nearly slip off."Here-come here, just-"_

_This time, it's him who holds Ed's face between his hands, staring at him, arching his eyebrows._

_"It'th juth-st politics" Ed murmurs, barely catching the words before David just closes his eyes and presses their noses together. "It'th juth-st politicth-"_

_David kisses him very, very softly. It's Ed who deepens it, his hands sliding into David's hair, kissing him more slowly, pressing against him. The heat of David's body against his catches his breath in his throat, makes him let out a low moan. David jumps slightly._

_Ed feels heat flood his face. "Th-sorry-"_

_David just stares at him, shakes his head, and then kisses him slowly again, pressing their chests together slowly, so that their hearts beat together. Their noses push together, and Ed lets out another long moan, softer this time._

_"You sound good-" David murmurs, into Ed's neck, and something ripples through Ed's body, a wave of pleasure, that makes him wind his arms around David's waist, his legs falling either side of David's leg._

_When Ed opens his eyes again, Cameron's looking up at him, brow furrowing slightly, and then he murmurs "Can I-" and tugs at the bottom of Ed's shirt questioningly._

_Ed's breathing hard. It's Cameron._

_This is bloody Cameron-_

_-it's just politics, it's-_

_David's finger touches the bare skin of Ed's stomach. Ed hears himself make a faint, gasping sound. David's mouth's on his neck, his throat, down to his collar bone, warm and wet. His finger moves back and forth, Ed's stomach tautening, a moan throwing his head back. David stares up at him, blue eyes wild, his mouth pressing back into Ed's collar bone, teeth scraping his skin, sending a shudder through his whole body-_

_There's a knock on the car window._

_Ed freezes. David's utterly still, an inch away from him, blue eyes wide. Ed's heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might stop._

_David lifts a finger to his mouth. Ed stares at him, holding his breath, waiting._

* * *

"I thought Gita was picking us up?" Nancy climbs into the back of the ministerial car next to Dad, then scrambles into the back with Elwen-they can only use the family car when Mum or Gita's there to drive.

"She was-" Dad's disentangling Florence from her schoolbag, as she bounces next to him, her ponytail slipping loose. "But I need to go and see Mr Miliband, and I thought Florence might want to see Sam."

"Where are we going, then?" Elwen's fiddling with his seatbelt next to Nancy.

"Er-Mr Miliband's house-" Dad glances at them over the back of the seats, his eyes lingering on Nancy a second longer. "Do you remember, we went there a couple of months ago-"

Florence bounces. "We're going to see _Sam-"_

"Yeah, that's right, Flo-"

Nancy yanks her ponytail loose. "Are you going to go into the-have you got anything you're drawing for the Blossom thing?" Blossom had been in Bea's class a couple of years back-she used to sometimes play skipping with them in the playground, and she didn't get mad when Nancy accidentally dislodged one of the tufts of hair that kept falling loose when she patted her shoulder one time. They'd known Blossom was sick, and then she'd stopped coming to school, but it had still felt like missing a step going downstairs when they'd had a Special Assembly one morning back in Year 3 to tell them Blossom had died. Now, they have an art competition every year for her, especially after Blossom's mum died last Christmas too.

Elwen shrugs, characteristically blase. "Nah, not yet."

"Is this for Blossom-" Dad's looking at them over the back of the seat.

"Yeah, Blossom that died." Nancy can just call Blossom "Blossom" to Bea and the other kids at school, and they'll know who she's talking about, but whenever they talk to Flo about her, or some visitor at school, she and the others often find her name being threaded into three-"Blossom-That-Died"-as if that was on her birth certificate.

"For the art competition" Elwen chips in.

"Oh, right." Dad's strapping Flo in as they drive off-the windows are tinted, so Nancy doesn't have to worry about sliding down out of sight, especially since Dad remembered to make sure they parked round the corner, so that no one noticed the extra security car. They always have an extra security car, even when they're just in the normal family one-when they use this one, it's usually when they're all together, except for when they're going to things like the Royal Wedding or Trooping The Colour-then Mum and Dad go in the proper Prime Minister's car and Nancy, Elwen and Flo ride in this one. Flo's always getting them confused.

"Why do you need to see-" Nancy pulls out her hair slides, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders. "Mr Ed Miliband?"

Dad glances at her again, almost too quickly to catch, but Nancy notices.

"We've just got to talk about some arrangements " he says, as Flo nearly upends her schoolbag. "You know, for the campaign?"

"Yeah-"

"It's easier to talk at home, as well, because otherwise we'd have-you know, a lot of advisers around-" Dad secures Flo around her waist as she stretches her arms out, her hands little starfish in the air. "And Mummy's at work."

* * *

_"You guys have never been to New York, have you?" Auntie Clare is walking round the garden with baby Iris on her hip, trying to rock her so that Nancy can hold her once she's sleepy._

_Nancy shakes her head, taking a sip of some of her mock cocktail, with strawberry juice. "No. Mum and Dad have, though." She presses her head into Mum's side, stretching slightly-Auntie Clare had come down and picked her, Elwen and Flo up to drive them down to Auntie Tania's earlier, since Mum and Dad had been working. Mum and Dad only arrived half an hour ago, and right now, most of the kids are milling around the garden, waiting for the pool to be switched on._

_"Yeah, I used to go there for work all the time-" Mum kisses Nancy's head, letting her wind her arms around her waist._

_"You were there on 9/11-" Nancy reminds her, glancing at the pool. She's only wearing a denim dress, with long sleeves for the winter breeze that keeps making her shiver, spring still only whispering on the air._

_"Yeah, that's right, sweetheart." Mum kisses her head again. "Has Dad got Flo, where-"_

_"Yeah, he's getting her into her swimming costume." Nancy peers over Mum's arm to check on the progress of the hot tub. Auntie Clare is patting Iris' head, murmuring kisses to her._

_"Where's Tania?"_

_"Getting ready. OK-" Clare juggles Iris one more time on her hip, before passing her over carefully. "Careful-she can hold up her head now, but just make sure you support her-"_

_Nancy buries her nose in Iris' soft blonde hair. Iris gurgles happily. Her face looks really like Flo's as a baby, but under a mop of blonde._

_"But we were thinking" Clare says, helping Nancy juggle Iris gently, slowly rocking her back and forth. "In the summer, once you've finished primary school, you guys could come out for a few days. Stay at our brownstone."_

_Nancy screams before she gets to the end of the sentence._

_So does Mum, but that's because Nancy's just leapt up and landed on her foot._

_Behind her, Mr Ed Miliband chokes on his drink. "Jesus Christ-"_

_Mum says something far worse. Nancy is too busy jumping up and down to pick her up on it, which she'll deeply regret later._

_"Jesus wept" Auntie Clare says, as Iris' face crumples into a wail of shock. Nancy manages to take a deep breath, and press her hand against the baby's cheek._

_"Oh, for God's sake, Nance-"_

_"No, no, it's fine, she's fine-" Auntie Clare reaches out. "Here, give her here a tick, you can have her back then-"_

_"What was that?" Mr Ed Miliband still looks slightly shell-shocked, as though he's never heard someone scream before. Nancy wonders if he's actually used to kids._

_"Auntie Clare said we might go to New York in the summer" she tells him, trying to keep her voice down, so that Iris doesn't scream again, though her sobs are trailing off into sulky little hiccups, Auntie Clare kissing her nose and her cheeks at once._

_Mr Ed Miliband's face freezes very slightly, but before Nancy can do any more than notice it, he raises his eyebrows. "Really?"_

_"Yeah-" Nancy turns back to Mum. "Could we go to the Met Museum?"_

_"Yeah-" Mum rubs her ankle furiously. "Tell you what, Nance, ask me when you haven't just-fractured my metatarsal-"_

_"Oh, calm down." Auntie Clare lifts Iris into the air a little, kissing her nose. "You were like this when we got those tattoos done-"_

_Nancy is taking the chance to check if the hot tub's ready yet, so it doesn't occur to her until a few minutes later that by the time they go to New York, they'll know if Dad's still Prime Minister or not. But then Uncle Carl calls out that the hot tub's ready, so Nancy runs inside to get her swimming costume on, and by the time she's folded up her dress and joined the others in wrestling for the toy snorkels, she's almost forgotten._

* * *

For a minute, David worries that he's killed Patrick when he opens the door. "What the fucking hell are you doing here?"

David steps aside to reveal Nancy, Elwen, and Flo, who's walking between the two of them, holding their hands.

"Oh, shit." Patrick grimaces. "I mean-sorry."

Florence blinks up at David from his side. "What's ducking?"

David arches an eyebrow at Patrick. "Can we come in?"

"Er-no offence, I know sod off sounds very one-sided, but there we go, I need you to-er-fulfil that-" Patrick flaps at the door.

"Just tell Miliband I'm here, would you, I only need to talk to him for two minutes, and that will be it-"

"He's not fu-bloody _here."_ Patrick looks over David's shoulder down the street."And we're-Jesus, just come in, just come in-"

"Thanks for the welcome-" David ushers the kids in ahead of him, picking up Florence, only for Patrick to tug at his elbow, gesture down the hall. "OK, where are we-wait, what the-"

Patrick tugs open the door under the stairs. David raises an eyebrow. "I'm not getting into a cupboard with you, Patrick, if that's where this is going."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Other door."

David sighs, gestures Nancy and Elwen to go ahead of him, and carries Flo himself, who's fiddling with her ponytail. "Here, darling-" He gently takes her bobble out with one hand, setting her down at the bottom of the steps, combing her hair out with his fingers.

Patrick's stopped awkwardly, half-turned towards them. His eyes flicker from Nancy to Elwen, to Florence, watching as David kisses her cheek, settling her more comfortably on his hip.

"How's Alex?" he asks, after a moment.

David doesn't remember meeting Patrick as a child-then again, he was nine when Patrick and Alex met, and by the time he got to Eton, Patrick and Alex were already in their penultimate year. But the second Miliband's new Deputy Head Of Press had been announced nearly two years ago, the name had been familiar, and a phone call to Alex alone would have sorted it out, had it not been for Chris, who, the moment he'd heard his name, had slapped the table and said "Did he go to St Paul's?" Two minutes of Googling later, and they'd figured out that not only had Miliband managed to hire someone who'd gone to both David's and George's old schools, but that Chris had been in the same class as him since they were seven, until Patrick got accepted to Eton.

"He's brilliant" David says, more coolly. "QC now."

"I heard."

Patrick knocks at the door. David frowns. "Isn't this where Zia lives?"

Patrick raises his hands. "Look, Ed and Justine thought-they thought the kids could play down here when they come back, while the filming's going on-with Zia, they've got a couple of-"

"Who's up there, then?"

Patrick snorts. "Like we'd tell you." He glances at the children a second too late, then grimaces.

David opens his mouth, but it's Nancy who says "You're on the Red Team, aren't you?"

Patrick stares at her, mouth parted slightly. "Ah-" He glances at David, who deliberately keeps his face blank, offering no clues.

Nancy folds her arms. "I could tell."

David's saved from the moment by Zia opening the door.

* * *

Inside, two little faces are perched at the kitchen island, eating what look like Babybel cheeses. David peers at them. "I'm fairly sure you are not Daniel and Sam."

"This is Aaron, who's in Daniel's class-" Zia pats one little boy on the shoulder, who peers at David suspiciously with big, dark eyes. "And this is Betsy." Betsy is smaller, with chubby cheeks, and a long plait of hair over one shoulder.

"Betsy's at nursery with Sam" Zia says, carefully helping Betsy unwrap a Babybel. Betsy waves at them cheerfully, but Aaron eyes them speculatively, his eyebrows furrowing in a scowl as he looks at David-perhaps not helped by the way Nancy returns his look with an arched eyebrow. David touches her shoulder. Nancy doesn't look away, and, once she notices, neither does Florence.

"Flo." David taps her shoulder gently. "Don't stare."

Flo looks away, waits until David turns back to Patrick, then stares even harder at Aaron.

"Where are Daniel and Sam?" David asks, as Zia pats a stool for Florence, who toddles forward, and, scrambling up with Zia's help, plants herself between Aaron and Betsy, where she turns, arms folded, to stare at Aaron more fiercely than ever.

Zia sucks her teeth for a moment, as she turns back to the fridge. "Ah-I think Justine said that they were doing some filming in the park."

"The park?"

"Hampstead Heath, I think." Zia smiles at Nancy and Elwen, who have both sat themselves on the stools on Aaron's other side, curving round in an L shape. "Do you want-any of these-"

Florence unwraps her Babybel without taking her glare off Aaron once. David tries not to smirk.

"I did say" Patrick makes sure to say again, looking irate at the Babybel feast now going on, as he folds his arms.

"They're going to be doing some filming upstairs, so they asked for-" Zia gestures at Aaron and Betsy behind their heads. "Someone to occupy the boys. So they don't go interrupting."

"What do they do every other day?" David asks, debating whether or not to steal a Babybel himself.

Zia sucks her teeth again. "Well. They're not usually...here, then."

David meets her eyes for a minute and then looks away. "I see."

His eyes fall on Florence, who's glaring at Aaron again. "Flo."

Flo's lips form a baby pout. _"He's_ doing it."

"Yeah, well. If-" David glances at him. "Aaron jumped off a cliff, would you do it?"

Flo sticks out her tongue. "Don't _want_ to." She glares at Aaron for another moment, then turns round and gently pokes Betsy's cheek. Betsy eyes her speculatively for a moment, then slowly offers her the unchewed half of her Babybel.

David glances at Patrick. "How are Georgia and Joe?"

Patrick's mouth twitches for a moment, as though debating not answering, but then he says slowly, reluctantly "They're doing well. Georgia's started her GCSE years-"

"Year Eleven?"

"Year Ten. Joe's Year Eight."

"Which schools?"

"Georgia's at Waldegrave, Joe's at Teddington." Off David's expression, Patrick shakes his head. "They're out in Richmond." There's a moment, before, with an effort, Patrick says "What about Alex's-Imogen and Angus?"

"Imogen's in her last year at university, at Newcastle. Gus just started at Bristol."

"Which schools?"

"Downe House and Radley."

Patrick looks away with a half-grin, half-grimace, then glances at Nancy. "I heard-erm-about your daughter."

"Grey Coat?"

"Well done."

Nancy fixes Patrick with a cool, challenging gaze from the kitchen island. "Thank you" she says, loudly enough that Patrick can't ignore her. David can't resist a slight grin.

"Ed didn't tell me you were coming" Patrick tells David, a little more shortly, as Zia turns back to the fridge.

"We've got to save some Babybels for the boys, remember-" Off David's glance, she says "Babybels are a treat."

David blinks. "Sorry, Babybels are a _treat?"_

Zia bites her lip. "Justine has quite specific ideas about what they're meant to eat."

Maybe she and Miliband should watch them eat it then, David thinks, but doesn't say.

"He didn't" Patrick says, a little louder, glancing between David and Zia. "Tell me you were coming."

David shrugs. "I didn't tell him. Laura tried to get hold of James, but she didn't say whether he'd told him or not."

Patrick's eyebrows furrow. "If it's TV debates, it's-"

"It's not-" David glances at the children, lowers his voice. "It's not TV debates."

Patrick frowns, glances at the kids again. "What, you couldn't have-this couldn't have-you had a chance to tell him, you could-"

David feels his cheeks grow rosier. "It wasn't really the time on Saturday."

Patrick stares at him.

"What?"

"Saturday?" Patrick shakes his head. "What do you mean, Saturday, what-what was Saturday?"

David stops. "What?"

* * *

_"Where's Flo?" Elwen asks, as they perch on the sofas inside, wrapped in towels, their parents having taken over the hot tub._

_Nancy sucks at the blackcurrent Calypso lolly, sticking out her tongue to see if it's turned purple yet. "Upstairs, asleep." She pops a Mini-Egg in her mouth off a squashed chocolate-chip cake, crunches it between her teeth. "She's got a cake, like-squashed on the floor, it fell out of her hand-"_

_Elwen gulps at his own orange Calypso, as Oli wanders back over to the couch, throwing himself down, taking a sip of a turquoise liquid in a bottle. Nancy wriggles further up into the towel, propping herself back up against the back of the couch. "What's that?"_

_Oli grins at her over the rim of the bottle. "WKD."_

_Xan's head appears over the back of the sofa. "Can I have some?"_

_"No." Oli doesn't even look round. Nancy doesn't bother to ask, sensing from the prickle of excitement around the younger boys, that only creeps into the air when able to touch something forbidden, that it's something alcoholic. Mum's already let her have a sip of her wine at Christmas dinner and Nancy hates it, having lost interest, as children often do, the moment something that had been long-forbidden had been placed in her hands._

_She peers out of the window again, her head aching slightly with the odd feeling of being up too late but not tired, the surreal feeling only added to by the hot tub and the fairy lights strewn over the garden, with the vague drumbeat of music from the iTunes speakers._

_"Where's Dad?" she asks Elwen, prodding him with her foot._

_"Out there-"_

_"No, I can see Mum-" Nancy leans over the back of the sofa, then scrambles over the back. "Yeah, Mum's-no, Dad's gone-"_

_She climbs over the sofa and heads out into the garden, not bothering to take her towel, still chewing the last of the muffin, carrying her Calypso in one hand. She makes her way down one of the paths, sliding her Converse out from the pile of shoes that had been dumped by the little outhouse earlier, and then glances down the side of the house. (Mum and Dad always have to go outside when they smoke. They do it especially since Nancy did the Healthy Living topic in PSHE earlier this year, and made a slide of her Powerpoint to the class about how Mum and Dad smoked, despite the fact doctors said it would mean you died sooner, and concluded by saying that therefore she, Elwen and Flo were naturally at a disadvantage because they were being set a bad example at home.)_

_But there's nobody there-glancing back, Nancy can see most of the grown-ups seem to be in the hot tub. She waits, to see if anyone notices she's there, and then trots further down the path, in case Dad's gone all the way round the front. (Last time Nancy caught him smoking, she was with Liberty in the garden at Downing Street, and blasted Elwen's party horn behind him, which meant Dad nearly choked.)_

_Nobody's round the front where all the cars are lined up on the driveway. Nancy stands there, frowning, absent-mindedly bending down and tugging at one of her loose laces, trying to balance her Calypso in her other hand. She shivers slightly in the breeze, and she's about to turn and head back inside when she hears an odd thud._

_Nancy stops, frowning. She's not scared-Dad's security guards are at the end of the driveway and Nancy reckons it's pretty unlikely someone could have got past them. She's not going to call out "Hello", either, because she's pretty sure that's what someone who dies first does in a horror film._

_She waits, tracing her Converse sneaker over the gravel, wondering if someone else is just smoking in a car or something. But nobody moves, and Nancy waits, glancing back at the garden, wondering if she should just go back and ask Mum where Dad is._

_There's another thud. This time, one of the cars jolts slightly, and it takes Nancy a moment to realise it's theirs._

_She squints at it-in the dark, all the cars look like each other, big black shapes that are almost monstrous-but it's definitely their car. She can see, faintly, the tinted glass that was put in when Dad first became Prime Minister._

_Nancy trots down towards the car, stopping to untuck her laces from the side of her shoe where the aglet is digging into her heel. She wraps her towel tighter around her shoulders-it's got colder in the last couple of hours, the night air making her shiver slightly._

_She stands beside their car for a moment, waiting. There are a couple more bumps from inside, but no one gets out, so Nancy, frowning, raises her hand, and taps politely on the window._

_She waits, hugging herself slightly, tapping her foot as she glances back at the house. She tugs at the door handle slightly, but it's locked. Nancy stops, puzzled, then taps again._

_She's just pressing her nose to the glass, squinting even though she's never been able to make anything out through the glass before, when the door opens and squashes it._

_"Ow-"_

_Nancy's rubbing her nose when the door opens and Dad says "Nance?"_

_Nancy looks up at him, aggrieved, holding her nose. Dad grabs hold of the door, one hand grabbing her shoulder. "What happened-what-did it-did it hit your-"_

_"You hit me in the nose" Nancy tells him, nasally, where she's speaking through her fingers._

_"Is it blee-here, is it bleeding, is it bleeding?" Dad pushes the car door shut behind him, takes Nancy's chin between his hands. "Here-here, let me see-"_

_Nancy sniffs experimentally. "Don't think so." She gives her father an aggrieved look, the throbbing in her nose dying down slightly. "What were you doing?"_

_"I was looking for Flo's bloody koala" Dad says, putting an arm round her shoulders as they start to walk back to the house. "She wanted it earlier, and I didn't want her-waking everyone up at three o'clock because she'd decided her flipping rabbit wasn't enough."_

_Nancy glances up, forehead furrowing slightly. She glances back at the car, not quite sure what she's expecting to see, but, though she keeps her gaze over her shoulder until they turn round the side of the house, heading back to the party, there's nothing there._

* * *

"Now-" Mummy bends down and tugs at Daniel's hand, making him look at her. "Remember, this is for Mummy's interview, so James is just going to walk with us for a bit, OK?"

Daniel shrugs. Mummy came and got him and Sam out of school early, and Jenn's face went all funny when it was time for him to go home, and she said something about it being Assessment Week, which means when everyone has to do tests to see if they find the work easy or not. Daniel finds the tests easy, but Jenn told him this morning he had to stay in at One O'Clock Club today and that made him feel cross, so when it was time to do the tests, he just scribbled in a lot of places in the test booklet where he was meant to put answers.

Mummy's face does that funny smile she does when she's trying to look happy when Daniel can tell she wants to shout. "Daniel-Daniel-" She bends down so that she's right next to him and holds Daniel's chin when he tries to look away from her. "This is very important, remember-we need you to be a big boy-"

"Yeah, you can be very grown-up, th-sweetie-" Daddy's walking ahead of them, carrying Sam, but his eyes keep moving between Daniel and Mummy, like he's waiting for something to happen.

"OK, mister?" Mummy does the big smile again, and taps Daniel's nose. Daniel doesn't say anything but keeps walking up to the group of grown-ups that are waiting at the end of the path, Mummy's fingers all tight around his wrist, where his sleeve's covering his hand. They sometimes come to the playground with Zia, and Sam got excited when he heard they were going to Hampstead Heath, but Mummy said they're not going there, because they have to be grown-up today.

"Hi-" Mummy holds her hand out to the first man, who's very tall and wears glasses. Daniel tugs at his wrist, and this time Mummy lets go of him. When he turns round, he sees Daddy's friend Torsten holding his and Sam's scooters, pushing them along the ground.

"Hello-Justine, nice to meet you-"

"OK-" Mummy taps his shoulder. "OK, Daniel, this is James-remember, we talked about-this is James-"

Daddy's shaking James' hand, and they're talking, but their voices are all climbing over each other, which means Daniel can't hold onto them. Sam's curling away from the man called James, with his cheek pressing into Daddy's shoulder.

"Are you-are you being shy, mister-" Mummy tries tapping Sam's shoulder.

"Are you-do you not want to th-say hello, th-sweetie-"

"This is-this is James-James, this is Sam-" Mummy keeps turning between James and Daddy, like it's going to make Sam do something.

"And thith-thith is Daniel-" Daddy tries to wrap his fingers round Daniel's wrist. Daniel tries to slide his hand down, so they're holding hands, but Daddy just keeps holding onto his wrist instead.

"OK-" The man called James is looking at all of them. "OK-here's what-we've talked about what we're going to do-"

"Yep." Mummy's nodding.

"We're just going to-be filming you walking through the park, just along the path-boys on their scooters, that kind of thing-"

"Yeah, and we said-" Tom, Daddy's friend, is standing next to James. "Remember, we said-we'd get a couple of close-ups of the boys on their scooters, remember-"

These words wash over Daniel, and then Daddy's friend Rachel is tapping him on the shoulder. "Hello there, Mr D-"

Daniel wrinkles his forehead. Mummy and Daddy call him Mr D, but it makes Daniel feel odd inside, like something's trying to wriggle away inside his chest.

"Now-" Rachel looks up at Mummy. "Sorry to interrupt-but-did you say-we could put the powder on the boys-"

"Oh-oh, yeah, yeah, that'll be-" Mummy looks at James. "Do they need it, at all, do you think-"

James sucks in his breath. "Probably. We are going to have a couple of close-ups-"

"Yeah-yeah, OK-"

"And they'll be a bit washed-out, otherwise-"

"All-all right-" Daddy's trying to lift Sam down, but Sam's still turning his head away from James, and Rachel waves at him. "Hello-are you OK, Mr Sam-"

"Yeah, we've got your-" Torsten taps Daniel's shoulder. "See, we've got your scooters here-if you-once you've had your powder put on, you can take them for a ride-"

"Yeah, because we're going to show James around the park, aren't we?" Mummy says, giving James her big smile. "We're going to-we've just got, what we've just got to do is-"

"We've got to just put some powder on, sweetie-"

"Yeah, see, Daddy and Mummy are going to put it on-" Mummy points at Rachel. "So you're-you're going to wear it like a big boy-you can wear it like the grown-ups do-"

Daniel doesn't have the chance to ask what, because then there's a small brush being pushed against his cheek. He shakes his head, trying to get away from the bristles, and Rachel's hand grips his shoulder. "Here, Mr D, stay still-"

"Do you mind if we mic them up?" James is saying to Daddy, but it's Mummy who says. "Yes-yeah, that's fine, that's fine-"

"Just so we can hear what they're saying, when they're on the scooters-"

Someone crouches down behind Daniel, and pulls down his hood. Daniel bats at their hand, but then they've got hold of the bottom of his coat.

"Daniel-" Mummy's having Anna brush something on her face. "Daniel-that's just a microphone so they can hear you better-"

Daniel doesn't care what it is, he doesn't want it on his coat. But when he tries to take hold of it and pull it off, the lady takes hold of his hand and moves it away.

"Daniel-" Mummy's voice is harder now, even though she's smiling. "Be a big boy-"

Daniel glares at her as hard as he can, until his forehead hurts, but Mummy's not looking at him anymore. She's smiling and chatting with James, even when Rachel pats Daniel's head awkwardly. Daniel looks away from her, at Sam. Daddy's trying to put him down, but Sam keeps holding onto him, trying to turn his face away from the brush. Daniel watches, but Daddy just keeps talking to one of the camera people, even when Sam burrows into his shoulder like he's trying to climb away.

* * *

"Now, what we're going to do-" James says, clapping his hands together as they stand in the middle of the path, surrounded by trees. "What we're going to do is-we're going to have the four of you just walking down the path at first, and get shots from a few different angles of that-"

"Right, OK-"

"And then we'll do me walking with you for the interview segment-" James glances at the boys. "We'll-we'll probably ask you to walk up and down the path a few times, so we can get the shots, but we'll try and do the interview in one-"

"Yep." Justine tries to give Daniel's hand a squeeze, to remind him to behave. He and Sam are both quiet now, but neither of them are smiling too much, and Justine worries that it won't help the look.

"Th-so we're-we're juth-st walking-" Ed tries to lift Sam's hand to swing him a little-Sam lets him, but frowns up at him, brow crumpling in confusion.

"Should we-" Justine pulls at Daniel's hood, even as he pulls away from her. She squeezes his hand warningly. "Should we have their hoods up or down-" She glances at Tom. "Which would be better, do you think-"

Tom squints at them. "I think-yeah, one up, one down's fine, Sam's-I don't think-" He crouches down behind Sam. "Yeah, his coat doesn't have a hood-"

"Doesn't it?" Justine has forgotten-she can't remember if it was her who bought it or if she asked Zia to get them one.

"No-so-it's all right, Daniel's is up anyway-" Tom tugs at Daniel's hood slightly. "Anyway-Daniel's is-we might put it down for the interview bit, but apart from that-"

"Yeah-"

Tom had asked a few times if they wanted the boys' faces to be hidden-obscured in some way, or for them just to be filmed from behind. Ed had been a little more hesitant, but Justine had pointed out that they're meant to look like a team.

"It shows we're united" she'd told him. "Like we're pulling together."

"Yeah-" Ed had looked a little lost, and Justine had pushed down the prickle of irritation it sent through her.

"It looks more normal" she'd told him. "It completes the picture, if you know what I mean."

Ed had still looked unsure, so Justine had given him a hug, pressing herself against his chest until he'd moved his arms around her shoulders slowly, holding her slightly stiffly against him.

Now, watching Ed carefully try to guide Sam onto his scooter-"Here, why don't we have a ride, th-sweetie?"-Justine tries to make herself smile. Daniel's already on his scooter, scuffing his shoe along the path disconsolately, eyes drifting. Justine remembers going to her grandfather's speeches in Wales when she was little, her father carefully nudging her if ever he thought she was falling asleep. Alex had been bored more easily, wriggling around and not appreciating it, but Justine had always listened as hard as she could, relishing the moments Dad would let her lean against his arm, the resounding of hands in his ears when people stood up to applaud.

A few moments later, they're walking down one of the main paths-"Just talk amongst yourselves" Tom had told them. "They'll do the close-up shots in a minute, on the main path-", Justine's fingers wrapped around Daniel's wrist, not sure whether or not she's holding him too tightly.

"Which way are we going?" she asks Ed distractedly-she doesn't often take the children to the park. "When we go past the park-"

"Well, we th-sometimes go that way and sometimes go that way-" Ed shoots an anxious glance at Tom and Rachel, standing off through the trees with James, though Justine isn't sure when he last took them to the park either.

"You choose-" one of the cameramen calls out.

"OK-"

Justine glances at Ed. "OK, chaps-do you-" She chivvies Daniel along a little, tugging as he lags behind. "Come on, you need to keep up-shall we go this way, down here-"

"Do you-can you go a bit faster, th-sweetie-" Ed tugs at Sam's wrist carefully, as though he might break.

"So-when you see-see the men up ahead, chaps-" Justine tugs at Daniel's wrist, reaches over to pat Sam's head, knowing the cameras will pick that up, if they're on. "When we get up to them, one of them's going to get right down in front of you, and we just need you to give a big smile, OK?"

"Why?" Daniel frowns up at her. Justine feels her smile stiffen slightly, her cheek muscles aching.

"Because we're doing it for the Red Team." She forces herself to keep the words light, even as the words are straining tightly in her chest to correct him- _because we need you to, you need to do this for us._ "Remember? We're doing it for Daddy-remember, because Daddy wants to be in charge of the country-"

"You can juth-st pretend the cameras aren't there, th-sweetie-" The word's starting to grate in Justine's chest, set her teeth on edge. "Jutht th-smile when we tell you you need to th-smile-"

"I don't want to smile." Daniel's tone is flat, staring at the ground as he drags his foot along. Justine sees her knuckles whiten around his wrist, and Daniel makes an annoyed sound, tries to tug away.

"No, Daniel, I have to-"

"No, Mummy has to hold your hand-"

"OK, guys-" Tom claps his hands. "Ed, can you just-step back a bit-"

"Yeah, if you could just-walk back a few steps and we'll film that bit again-because that was quite a good shot-" Bob steps in, tone a little calmer, but Justine hears the reprove in it and flinches inwardly-the boys didn't get it right. She couldn't make them get it right.

"OK, come on-" Ed tugs Sam's hand-Sam makes an anxious little noise and holds his arms up to him. "No-no, I can't carry you, th-sweetie-"

"Yeah, come on, gents." Justine tries to juggle Daniel's hand a little as she guides him back, her shoe nearly being run over by his scooter. "If we-see, if you'd smiled, we wouldn't have to do it again."

Daniel scowls at her. Justine tries to smile, her teeth grinding together. "Daniel" she says, her voice low. "You need to smile, OK? You're doing it for Daddy."

Daniel looks down, his mouth puckering.

"That's enough-just-start walking again-" Bob calls out, and Justine does, glancing at Ed and Sam to make sure none of them are walking too out of line.

"OK, c-can we-a bit more to the right-"

Justine tugs at Daniel's hand, hoping to juggle a smile out of him. "Have a look over there-"

"OK, just talk amongst yourselves for us-" one of the other cameramen is shouting. "Just-chat about normal things, this bit won't be heard-"

"You can tell everyone at school tomorrow, can't you, th-sweetie?"Ed says to Daniel, with that too-big grin he sometimes does-Justine feels it curl in her chest, irritating her. "About coming to the park with the cameras-"

"Yeah" she says, forcing herself to smile too. "And when we get back home-I bet Aaron and Betsy will want to hear all about it-"

"No, they _won't"_ says Daniel, looking up at her almost accusingly, his hood almost falling down. "We're only in the _park-"_

Sam makes an non-committal noise, foot nearly sliding under his scooter, tripping him up.

"Yeah, but you're helping Daddy for the cameras, aren't you?" Justine tries to lift his hand slightly. Maybe they should have suggested swinging them. Maybe that would have worked better, but they've done that before.

"OK, we're just-just pause a moment-fix his hood-" Bob calls out. "You can keep rolling, just-stand still where you are, let them get into place down the path-"

Justine takes a deep breath, trying not to grip Daniel's hand too tightly as she pushes his hood into place a little too quickly, fighting down the swelling words in her throat to bend down and hiss at him to just behave, to just make some effort, to understand that he has to _try-_

"Come on, th-sweetie-" Ed says half-heartedly, glancing at Daniel. Justine looks away, takes another deep breath, mind already working ahead, trying to predict how to coax a smile out of them for the close-ups. Just three seconds. That's all they need to smile for, and they won't do it for her.

"OK, can we go-move forward-"

"OK" Justine says, her voice lowered as they walk forward again, a camera moving slowly towards them from the grass to get a closer shot. "We're starting again now. All you have to do-just keep smiling and-"

"No, we're not _starting_ with this-"Daniel leans forward over the handlebars of his scooter, his hand clenched into a tight, furious little fist, Justine's curling tightly around his wrist. "We already did it-and I already- _smiled_ at it-"

Sam glances to his right at the camera, eyes wide, but at least he's smiling. If he hadn't been, Justine doesn't know what she'd have done. It's only the nearness of the camera that helps her to keep her voice calm.

"Well, it's different things" she says, managing to keep her voice low and level. "We all have to-"

"Why don't we talk about what Mummy has to do?" Ed says suddenly. "Remember, Mummy has to do an interview too-"

"And at school tomorrow-"

"Yeah-"

"You can tell everyone-"

"Yeah-" Sam burbles the word, still gazing off into the middle distance, but Justine experiences an odd, unfamilar urge to hug him.

"Would you rather be at school or the park?" Ed says, juggling Sam's hand slightly, awkwardly. "Th-see, Mummy came and got you early-because Mummy has to do the interview, remember, so it's not jutht-

"Everyone has to do things" Justine reminds them, her voice suddenly smaller, tighter. "Everyone has to help. That's your-"

She falters.

"You could-it-" Daniel stamps his foot slightly, and Justine grabs his wrist, so hard that he almost stumbles.

"Don't you dare" she hisses before she can stop herself. Ed glances at her sharply, as does Sam, eyes wider under his dark curls. But Daniel just glares up at her, his eyes like hers but bluer, sharper, and he doesn't look away.

"Well, what do you think Mummy's going to say in the interview?" Ed asks Sam suddenly, his voice a little too loud, and as Sam starts to burble an answer, Justine can look away, her fingers still wrapped around Daniel's wrist, her heart beating very hard.

* * *

There's a big black camera lens in front of them. Sam thinks it looks like an eye. Or a great big mouth, getting ready to swallow them.

"What do you think, chaps?" Mummy's voice is all bright and bouncy, which is strange because a bit ago, it was all quiet and whispery, but sharp and nasty in Sam's ears. "Is it-it's a big camera, isn't it?"

"A very big camera." Daddy's smile is too wide, like he might eat Sam. Sam wants to push his head into Daddy's leg at the same time but he knows Daddy won't pick him up.

"Here, turn and look at it, sweetie-" Mummy's hand reaches over and taps his head. "Here-do you want to look, Mr Sam-"

The name makes Sam's back go funny, like it's trying to wriggle away, but he looks at the camera slowly. He can see there's a man crouched behind it, but he doesn't look at it.

"Shall we-shall we have some smiles?" Mummy's smiling at the man behind the camera. "There we go, chaps, let's just-have a smile so the man can put you in the special film-"

Sam tries to smile at the camera, but he's not sure where he's _meant_ to look, at the lens, or at the man standing behind it.

"Do you think at school, any of the other people will be-will be doing this?" Mummy asks, while Sam tries to work out where to look. Daniel's smile next to him is wobbly, but that might be because Mummy's squeezing his hand too hard.

"See, they've got a camera!" Mummy's voice is bouncy but hard, like she might get angry. Sam can feel Daddy's hand tighten around his wrist, and so he looks at the camera and tries to smile, wondering if it's going to get bigger and bigger and wrap its' mouth around them all, so they all disappear into the hole.

* * *

"So is this a normal day out for you, to go to the park with the kids-"

They've moved further down the path now, James walking next to them. Ed shifts uncomfortably, trying to tug Sam's wrist, glancing back as he keeps falling behind slightly. Daniel's doing the same thing, but Justine's got a tighter grasp of his wrist.

"Um-" He glances at Justine. "Well, we try to-we try to get out as much as possible-"

"Yeah-"

"But obviously, it is difficult-" Ed can see Tom standing ahead of the cameras, which are moving backwards slowly in front of them, giving him a thumbs-up. "It is difficult-and it _is_ important for us to make time as a family-and you know, it's frustrating is-when I don't have enough time to see them-and cl-and obviously, you know, I think about-" He makes himself say the words a little more slowly. "You know, what would happen if I was Prime Minister-"

"Yeah-"

"We've got to start saying _when_ , not _if"_ Bob had told them earlier. "We've got to sound more confident. That's what the polls are looking for, according to James-people want to see that you're confident. It lets them be confident too."

"But we're not measuring the curtains" Rachel had reminded them. _"When_ sounds overconfident."

"And-er-making sure there's enough time-" He glances down at Sam, trying to grasp his hand a little tighter, even as Sam turns his head, gazing off into the trees. "Because, look-my most important job is-" He tries to laugh slightly. "Being a dad-and making sure I don't-you know-miss out on their childhoods-"

He tries to laugh again, but the words fall sadly into the air and stick in his throat.

"Right, and of course, when you're _leader-"_ James gestures slightly. "You know, it's-it's an _all-encompassing_ job, even when you're not at work-"

"Yeah, yeah, absolutely-"

"There's statements and keeping on top of the news and-you know-phone calls, being on the phone-"

Daniel makes an annoyed sound in his throat. James glances at him, then at Ed. "Is that-a bone of contention or-"

Ed manages to laugh but the sound is hollow. He glances at Justine, then at Daniel, who's frowning at the floor. They've taken his hood down for this bit-Tom thought it would look more casual for a conversation.

Justine juggles Daniel's wrist slightly, a bright smile bouncing into view. _"How_ much time does Daddy spend on the phone?"

Ed tries to smile, trying to seize onto her tone, willing Daniel to smile too. "Too much!"

For a moment, it looks as though it's worked-a faint flicker of a smile plays at Daniel's mouth. "Too _much-"_

* * *

_"How_ much time does Daddy spend on the phone?" Mummy pulls Daniel's wrist up a bit too hard, and she's smiling but her eyes aren't. Her eyes are big and wide, like she's scared of him.

"Too much!" Daddy says, and he's doing the big smile that Daniel doesn't like. Sam's smiling too, but that's because Sam's little and doesn't know what's going on. Daddy's been talking to the man called James, about spending time with them, though some of the words have all melted together for Daniel, but then he'd talked about being on the phone, which had Daniel feel hard and angry in his throat because Daddy's always on the phone, like at night when Daniel came down and he told him off.

"Too _much-"_ He tries to smile for the cameras, because they're supposed to smile and he doesn't want to have to do this bit again, like when they were on the other path.

"Too much-" Daddy's smiling and the other man called James is laughing, so Daniel must have done something right. "Too much-"

"Too much, I think it's definitely _-definitely_ too much-" But Daddy's still doing that smile that he does when he looks like he doesn't want to smile at all really and Mummy's still holding Daniel's hand too tightly, and Daniel remembers Daddy being on the phone and Mummy telling Daniel to go to bed, when Daniel had wanted Zia to put him to bed, and Mummy and Daddy don't know how to do it properly-

"Either he's-he's at work-"

Daddy leans down a little, as though to hear him, moving his mouth to say shush, and Mummy's smile's gone all strange and frozen, but Daniel doesn't want to shush.

_"Or_ he's on the phone, _or_ he's going out-"

Daddy's laughing now, but it's that odd sound that he'd had when he gave Daniel and Sam those pictures of him as a cartoon character, that he'd made when Daniel had said it just looked like him. It almost hurts Daniel's ears, and it's sharp in his chest.

Mummy's smiling too, but her eyes have gone harder now, and she leans in closer to him, even as Daddy says "There you go-" to James, his voice bouncier, like when you feel sick and you make yourself run around.

Mummy squeezes his hand, her eyes narrowed slightly. Her mouth moves very slightly, in a shhh gesture, her eyes hard like stones, and Daniel wants to kick her, but the camera's there, so instead he says, loudly, because he doesn't want to be quiet, "Because he's going to run the _country,_ which means he doesn't have time."

Mummy blinks, a strange, scared look flashing across her face. Daniel blinks, surprised to have caused that look-surprised in the way small children always are to realise that they can hurt adults.

"Oh dear-" Daddy tries to laugh again, but it doesn't quite work this time, even Daniel can tell that. "That's-er-"

"You'll have to-" The man called James laughs again, but he looks at Daddy a little bit too long. "You'll have to get your priorities straight then-"

"Indeed, indeed-"

Daniel's heart is beating fast and Mummy's holding his hand too tightly, staring at him as they walk. Her mouth's set into a thin line and she looks odd, almost frightened. Daniel stares back at her, a strange, savage pleasure settling into his little chest at the sight. If he were a little older, he'd think she looks how he feels, and be glad of it.

* * *

Patrick's gone back upstairs. The kids are sitting in front of the TV, entranced by The Octonauts. David wonders if that's the only thing that's allowed on TV, even when Daniel and Sam aren't here. At the kitchen island, he's sitting alone with Zia.

"Are they usually down here?" he asks Zia, more to get his mind off everything else.

Zia glances at him, from where she's sitting at the counter. "Who?"

David glances towards the children, before remembering belatedly that Daniel and Sam aren't there. "The boys."

Zia looks up from the booklet she's scribbling in. "Daniel and Sam? Yeah, usually. I give them their dinner down here, you know, they do their homework here. It's easier if their parents are working or-you know, they have colleagues round." David notices she doesn't say friends.

"What are you doing there?" David asks, trying not to think about Patrick's face when he went upstairs fifteen minutes ago.

"A fucking-" Patrick had lowered his voice, glancing over at the kids. " A fucking _family party?"_

David had cleared his throat, having already made up his mind to brazen this out as far as possible. "I mean, take out the first adjective-"

"Fuck off" Patrick had hissed. "This is not a-this is- _Jesus,_ do Tom and Bob know?"

David had shrugged. "What, you mean like Tom and Steve's pizza nights back at CRD?"

Now, Zia looks up at him. "An Open University course. It's in Economics."

"Oh." David shouldn't really be surprised, but he is. "So you're studying?"

"Yeah." Zia shrugs. "It was originally a temporary job, but you know-" She shrugs, tendrils of ashy-blonde hair escaping from her topknot. "I stayed."

"When did you start working for them?"

"About a month after Daniel was born." Zia shrugs, gathering her hair up, and then tucking a few strands back into her bun. "I just had done a few temporary nannying jobs-for a few weeks or something-beforehand, and this was-you know-a more permanent thing. It was good money, and Daniel was a baby so-" Zia shrugs. "I wanted to look after him."

"And then Sam-"

"Yeah, when Sam came along-I didn't really think about leaving. I knew they weren't going to have any more so-"

"How come?"

Zia's eyebrow arches up very slightly. "Justine was quite particular about it." She glances up at David. "As in, she said it to me at the first interview, that they'd be having another one when Daniel was about two. I think they overshot though, he was about-seventeen months when Sam was born."

"Right." David watches her work for a moment, noticing how unruffled Zia looks at the weird situation. Gita's never fazed by any of the bizarre intricacies of her job but then she's been with them since long before he was even in the Shadow Cabinet-she's grown with them, in a way.

"I'd just arrived here, then" Zia says, as though answering an unspoken question. "I didn't think it'd turn into a long-term thing."

"Are you happy it did?" David doesn't think about the question before he asks it.

Zia chews the end of her pen for a long moment. When she speaks, it's a little more slowly. "I think I'm happier for the boys that it did."

David watches her. Something in her tone reminds him, with an odd, jolting sensation, of Saturday night, his phone pressed to his ear, hearing Ed's breath shudder.

"Yeah" he says, more quietly than he realises. "I know what you mean."

* * *

When the knock at the door comes, David looks up, nerves suddenly itching in his stomach into a ball. "Is that him?"

Zia glances up at him curiously, but then gets up, with a glance at the children, heading to the door. David, before he can think twice, follows her.

If Zia finds this unusual, she doesn't show it, opening the door to reveal Patrick, who almost grimaces at the sight of David, as though having hoped to find that he'd somehow disintegrated in his absence. "Ed's back. He's just bringing the boys down, before they do the filming upstairs-"

"OK, are they-they're going to be down here-" Zia glances again at David, as Patrick turns back at the sound of another door opening. It's another moment before Ed's voice becomes audible, even the sound of his footsteps awkward, one after the other. "I think-Betthy and Aaron are here, th-sweetie-"

David' s heart hammers almost painfully at each lisped syllable. His hands curl unconsciously into fists, his palms suddenly unaccountably damp. He tries to slow his breathing, tamp down the odd flickers of something fluttering in his chest. Something like excitement. Or fear. Or both.

_Fuck._

Glancing again at the children, who are currently absorbed in what Zia's informed him is their iPad time-which is a rarity for Flo, who's currently holding it-he notices Nancy's gaze lingering on him over Elwen's head, her own tilted to the side-not quite curious, but noticing, in a gesture that reminds him oddly of Sam. David manages to give her a smile, but it's quick and his chest tightens as he does so, looking away, and then Ed's through the door and there's nowhere to look away from dark hair and big eyes and that fucking _lisp._

Ed walks through the door so fast, he doesn't even see David. David nearly clears his throat, but his mouth is too dry.

"Thankth, Zia-" His lisp is more pronounced than usual, his hair a mess, as though he's been running his fingers through it. "I wath juth-" He's carrying a pair of red schoolbags, which he drops onto the island in a heap, half-in, half-out of his own jersey-David's heart skips looking at it. It's almost annoyingly, defiantly plain.

(And Ed's in jeans, which, David reminds himself, as his breath catches in his chest, is not a good thing.)

"How was the filming?" Zia asks-David notices she's already reached for the schoolbags opening them up, reaching inside and searching them quickly without needing to look in a quick, well-practiced move.

"It wath-" David watches the way Miliband's dark eyes dart back and forth, something aching in his chest at the sight. "It wath fine-it-it went well-"

"Is Justine still-"

"Yeah, she's still filming, they went to a-a cafe, some sort of-Turkish cafe or something, it's down the road, her and James-"

"Oh, to do the interview?"

"Yeah, and-we're-Rachel and Anna are going over the questions with her-"

"Yes-"

"But it was-there wasn't-there wasn't anything unexpected, really."

David steps up to him at the exact moment that Ed turns round and walks into his chest. _"AAH!"_

* * *

"Jesus _Christ_ , Cameron!" Ed only just manages to lower his voice to a furious whisper. "Jesus _Chritht-"_

He manages to give Patrick a furious, betrayed look. He notices the way David pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in a grin and glowers at him.

Patrick sighs. "I couldn't let them hear upstairs."

Ed closes his eyes and takes in a long, deep breath. "What. The Fuck." He mouths the words silenty at Cameron, which makes Cameron turn away, shoulders shaking silently with suppressed laughter. Ed glowers at him so hard, he's amazed the gaze doesn't burn through his suit.

"What are you doing here?" he finally pulls himself together enough to ask, with what he considers to be a masterful display of self-control.

Cameron shrugs. "Well, I was out of options." He gives Ed a grin. Too much of a grin, and Ed turns away.

Cameron shouldn't be grinning. After bloody _Saturday-_

Cameron shouldn't be grinning.

(Ed shouldn't be remembering it.)

"I did try ringing" Cameron says, holding up his phone, as though that should suffice as apology.

Ed sucks in his breath, resisting the urge to grab Cameron's bloody phone out of his hands and smash it against the nearest work surface. Instead, he turns to Patrick with a silent, furious look, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

Patrick gives him a helpless shrug. "He turned up. Someone would have noticed if I'd just-argued with him on the bloody doorstep-"

Ed glances over at the TV and does a double-take at the number of heads there.

"Hi" Elwen says calmly, looking unfazed by Ed's unashamedly boggle-eyed look.

Ed somehow-he really doesn't know how-manages to force a smile. "H-hi. Hi."

His hand fastens into Cameron's sleeve and he mutters, out of the corner of his mouth "I'm confused, when did I say you could fucking move in?"

"Oh, didn't you hear?" Cameron widens his eyes. "Zia and I just got married. We're really happy, yeah."

"Do you think you could just stop _fucking about-"_ Ed's words taper off into a furious hiss.

(He shouldn't be remembering it.)

David arches an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Didn't you forget something?"

For a moment, Ed genuinely thinks Cameron's going to ask him to kiss him and debates fastening his hands round his throat.

(He shouldn't feel that rush in his stomach when he remembers it, that mad, frantic urge to smile scrambling in his chest.)

"The boys" David says, after a second too long.

Ed stares at him blankly for a moment, blinks, then nearly jumps out of his skin. "Oh, _sh-"_

He nearly trips over the door frame as he throws himself back through it, his thoughts scrambling up the steps into the hallway. The boys had been standing behind him in the little entryway to Zia's flat-they could have seen, they could have seen any of it-

"Dan-Daniel?" He half-grabs his son's shoulder, turning him away from the basement stairs, Sam standing disconsolately by the doorway. "Here, come-come inside-"

He manages to steer them in, hands gripping their shoulders a little too tightly, heart pounding. Torsten and Stewart have come back with him to the house; Mike's due back any minute, once he's set up James and Justine in the cafe. James and Justine will be due back anytime they've finished their interview, with Rachel and Anna in tow. If any of them see-

Ed manages to shut the door behind him, almost sinking back against it with relief. When he opens his eyes again, it's to see Patrick and Zia staring at him, Daniel and Sam glancing up with wide eyes, and Cameron quite clearly wrestling back a fit of laughter.

It's this last sight that really decides Ed, even if he won't let himself be aware of it. "We need to talk" is all he manages to spit out at Cameron, grabbing hold of his sleeve again without thinking twice.

Cameron arches an eyebrow. Daniel, leaning against Zia's leg, peers up at him. "Hiya-"

Cameron gives Ed another grin. "Hello" he says, reaching down to the boys-Sam's wandering aimlessly back and forth, Daniel's still winding around Zia's legs-Ed's never seen him do that with Justine.

"Park" says Sam, burbling the word slightly.

"You've been to the park?"

"There were _cameras"_ Daniel says, face crumpling into a frown, pressing into Zia's knee.

"Oh, really?" David gives Ed another raised eyebrow over the boys' heads and Ed feels his face colour. "Juth-st-"

"We're just going to have a chat" David says, easily (too easily, it's always too fucking _easily),_ with a grin at the kids. "Just keep-don't spend too long on the iPad, Nance, OK-"

Ed's heart thuds loudly in his chest. Nancy glances up at them, and Ed looks away at her sharp, blue-eyed gaze, pulse quickening. "Hi" he manages, tentatively, memory making his skin prickle with the crunch of gravel under his feet, the heat of Cameron's mouth still on his neck.

Nancy stares at him, perhaps a little too hard, a little too long. "Hi" she says softly, before her gaze moves to her father, and then finally, slowly, back to the screen.

Ed doesn't dare look at Cameron. But he manages to jerk his head abruptly, feels the brush of Cameron's arm against his as he follows him out of the kitchen.

* * *

"You're fine" Rachel says, dusting the make-up brush over Justine's face one more time, as Anna gives her a thumbs-up, with that too-bright, almost gormless smile. Justine tugs at the top-they'd decided at the last minute it would be better to change, so Justine had popped into the bathroom and come out in the other top Rachel had picked out-it's slightly deeper blue and more fitted.

"Now, remember-" Rachel gives her shoulder a squeeze, as James sits down opposite her with a quick grin. "Remember to get the Leveson-"

"Yeah-"

"The Leveson mention in-and the Red Team mention with the boys-"

"Yeah, and-"

"And don't worry about-sounding too rehearsed with the other stuff, with-the talking about at home and things like that, don't worry about that-"

"And the "more than a dress" stuff" says Anna, with an almost slavish grin. "Remember that."

Justine manages to smile tightly, but it seems to make Anna's day-her eyes brighten, as they always do. Rachel's roll very slightly, but then glances at James and says, in a quick undertone to Justine, "OK, just relax. Remember, you know cameras, it's fine-"

"Hi again-" James shakes Justine's hand, something that's always made her more comfortable than hugging. She manages to smile a little wider at that, conscious of the couple of cameras that have moved to just by the cafe window, in the small space that's been cleared for their table, and of the camera behind both her and James.

"Now, it's just going to be-a casual chat-"

"Yeah-"

"Nothing too deep or-" James holds out his hands. "We're just going to talk briefly-get a picture of your home life, how-how Ed's job affects the children, that kind of thing, it's more of a-personal thing, it's nothing-"

"OK-"

"And anything that's too close-close to the bone, you can feel free to tell us to row back from-" James leans back in his chair. "Is that-is that all-"

"Yeah, yeah." Justine takes a sip from her herbal tea, that has sat in front of her for at least ten minutes without her touching. "That's-that's fine, yeah."

There's something about cameras that instinctively reassures Justine and puts her on edge. She remembers the quickening of her heartbeat from when she was a teenager, the knowledge that once she heard the click of the board, what she was saying, doing was being committed to celluloid forever, snapped in history, and she could never take it back, no matter what she did. But then there was the feeling of the words she would have rehearsed over and over again, sharpening the syllables in her mouth until she could have said them in her sleep, knowing she could say them at the right time with the right intonation, knowing that when the cameras were rolling, she could, for a moment, get them perfect.

"So-we're just rolling now-" James gives her a smile. "And obviously, a lot of this won't be used-"

"Yeah, sure-" Justine manages to smile, folds her hands tightly in her lap-"Use them sparingly" Anna had warned her. "It makes you look more considered."

"Can we begin by how the job affects life with the boys?" James says, with a smile, though his countenance hasn't changed since the cameras started rolling.

Justine measures the words carefully in her mouth. "Well-you know, at home-" She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I would say that family life is-much the same for the children as it was for me-growing up-growing up in Nottingham-you know, we do normal things at home, we go-well, you saw, we take them out, we take them to the park-up until now, they've been too young to really...understand it."

"So the job doesn't intrude on your home life too much, when you get home at the end of the day?"

"Well-we get home usually, we-we talk about the day with each other, I tell him about my day, my work, he tells me about his day-" She plays Bob's words again in her mind. "But quite often we talk about the kids. We sometimes watch a boxset together-"

"The Camerons are boxset fans-" James gives her a smile. "What do you watch, do you-do you share their tastes?"

Justine laughs slightly, playing for time, as she tries to feel her way through the next answer. "I don't know if-it depends what they'd watch. I'd say-we watch _The Killing,_ we watched a lot of that-"

_"The Killing-"_

"And-we've just started watching _Episodes_ recently actually, we've got a few-we're about halfway through that, but obviously-it's-at the moment, it's difficult, but we try to-make time for home life."

"What do you do on the weekends, when the-when the phone stops ringing, as your son-I think it was Daniel, said to me?"

James is smiling, but Justine's heart quickens. Her hands wrap around each other more tightly in their lap. "Yeah-" Rage flashes, brief and hot in her chest, at the memory of Daniel's little face at her side, his defiant little grin that had made Justine want to shove her fingers into his mouth and rearrange it, gripping his hand tighter and tighter.

"We-Ed likes-like I said, watching boxsets-he likes to spend time with the children, he likes to read stories to the children-you know-Peppa Pig, they love all those-" Sam likes Peppa Pig; she isn't so sure about Daniel, but Zia reads it to Sam, at least.

"So Saturdays are spent-with the kids, going to the park, reading stories-having a takeaway-"

Justine manages to laugh. "I'm not a-definitely a takeaway. He likes a good Chinese takeaway." Ed does like Chinese, she knows that-they order from Monsoon most often when they're together, because it's just round the corner, but he does go for Chinese a lot.

"And-what's the division of labour like at home-are there-does he pull his weight around the house, does he-is there an equal sharing of chores?"

It's easier to laugh this time. "He-we do manage to share the chores, we do share the chores equally, I think-I might cook a bit more than he does, but we pretty much split the chores-I mean, he's terrible at DIY but then we're both-equally as bad there-" Justine squeezes her hands together. "So-it's pretty much a shared division of labour, I would say." They have a cleaner that comes in three times a week, and Zia often cooks food for them and leaves it upstairs to be heated, so they don't usually have to argue over chores. If they do, it's usually easy enough to do them separately.

"What about the job-because I think any politician would say that their job can intrude on their home life-"

"Yeah."

"What about the-how does the job affect time at home?"

Justine glances down, trying to arrange the next words properly, smooth over their corners. "I think-probably-his biggest- _regret_ about the job is-" She glances up at James. "Not seeing the children enough?"

James nods slowly.

"Or-worrying he doesn't see the children-as much as he would like-and that's something we talk about." She hesitates, threading the sentence out in her mind. "But-what we're trying to do a bit, now they're older-particularly-is-explain to them what he's doing? And what I'm doing-" She says it a little too quickly. "When we're both at work-"

She remembers doing that for Alex, when they were walking home from school, when Justine had their door key and Alex was sulking because their parents were away. "Mum and Dad have to do their studies" Justine had told him severely, tilting his chin up to her to make him understand. "They have to do their studies so they can help people. We're mature enough to handle it" she'd said, borrowing the word Dad had used. "We're mature enough to handle it" she'd said again, clenching the words between her teeth and biting down on them to keep them there.

"So they get a sense of-we're-we're not away from them-lightly, as it were." Justine glances down at the table, testing the sound of the words in her head. "So-" She glances back at James, makes herself smile, though she shouldn't need to. "They think he leads the Red Team-"

James laughs slightly, which makes Justine relax a little.

"So there's quite a lot of chats-I mean, you saw them-"

James nods.

"You saw them in the park-erm, there's quite a lot of chats about what the Red's Team's doing and who the Red Team's helping-erm-and things like that-" Justine's been hoping the talks about the Red Team will make the boys more enthusiastic with the leafleting, so they can help in the Easter holidays-Zia will be going back to visit her family, and Marion and her parents can't care for them all the time, plus, it'll help with the message.

"So-I hope they're getting a sense-errr-that he's doing something-worthwhile."

_Worthwhile_ , she remembers using to Alex as well. She'd been particularly proud of it, because it had been a word that had got her ten out of ten on a spelling test, and she'd shown it to Alex. "See-" She'd pointed at the word in the dictionary. _"Worth the time money or effort spent-of value or importance_ -that's what Daddy's work is."

Alex, all nine years of him, had blinked up at her, eyes a little bluer than hers'. "Important?"

"Yes."

Alex had watched her. "More important than here?"

"And-well, it's like-at home, at the moment-I've been focusing on my own job-because, like at the Bar, at the Bar where I work, things can be a little more flexible-but we're trying to sort of-involve them a little more."

"And-presumably if he's elected-" James is drawing his hand in slow circles on the table. "That's only-that pressure's only gonna get greater?"

Justine sucks her teeth, biding her time. "Don't sound like you're expecting to get into power" Bob had cautioned them both, on Sunday afternoon. "Sound confident but don't sound like you're measuring the curtains. It'll come across. We need to get across an image of you as a normal person" he'd said, to Justine. "You don't expect to get into power, but you and Ed are just trying to do the right thing. David and Goliath, think of that."

"Do-do you know-" She tries to laugh slightly. "I haven't r-I haven't thought about-erm-"

James nods understandingly.

"The future, particularly-er, I-" She shrugs, seizing on Bob's reminder of _normal._ "Probably like most women, I-being a working mother-and-" She glances back at James. "Having a husband who's Ed-I'm definitely on a kind of forty-eight hour-timetable-" It's a phrase she often uses at work talks-it's always comforted her in a way, to have a list of things to do, to recite in her head when she's lying in bed at night, not wanting to let any moments slip away, to remember what she has to do next.

"So-erm-I haven't really thought about it."

James nods slowly. "I've obviously got to ask you-how do you feel when Ed is ridiculed?"

Justine shrugs, lifting one shoulder-when she was interviewed back at the Labour conference in September, it was pretty rushed, and Bob was quite relieved when she gave a casual response to this question-"You've got to look like it's not a big deal to you. Like you're worried about bigger issues than that."

"Look, this is politics." She tries to smile slightly, weighing the words in her mouth. "It's-there are going to be attacks and criticisms, and it's going to be a tough election campaign, we know that-and we both knew that, coming into this-it wasn't a surprise, it's-that is politics. There are massively important issues to this country and-you know-it sort of comes with the territory, but-" She balances the words on her tongue, the way she does in court. "If I am really honest-I would be a lot more worried if quite a lot of the people who were attacking him were....supporting him."

James nods, encouragingly.

"I think-" She hesitates, testing the phrase. "If you are going to stand up to some-powerful people in this country-and declare a pr-pretty serious intent to bring about change-you are going to get attacked-" She looks at James. "That's the truth of the matter, that is the-it goes with the territory, really, and-I think you just-take it for what it is."

"But it's not just his _opponents_ who attack him-" James leans forward slightly.

Justine nods slowly, measuring up the words she's got to say next, pushing down any feelings that could balloon, too quickly for her to push back down.

"It's also-you know-the public, in the opinion polls-they say some pretty-" James raises his eyebrows. _"Rude_ things about him-"

Justine presses her lips tightly together, taking a deep breath.

"And that-" James frowns. "That _must_ upset you?"

"Well, I-" Justine glances away, composing herself the way she does in court, when she's about to launch into her closing argument, that she's spent ages carving out, sitting up into the early hours with stinging eyes until it's word-perfect. "I've thought about this-and-I think it's gonna get _worse-"_

She glances at James, weighing her words slowly, to let them sink in. "I think over the next couple of months, it's going to get really- _vicious_ -really personal-"

"We have to look like we're on the front foot, with things like this" Tom had said, when they were going through notes for the interview at the table the previous day. "We have to look like-yeah, we know about the attacks-actually, that's just another string to our bow-because we're willing to stand up to them, because we're fighting-"

"Yeah-"

"For the underdog. And that's worth-a bit of hassle."

Justine had nodded, pulling the sheet of notes towards her. "Yeah" she'd said, remembering sitting with that dictionary in her lap as a child, looking at Alex, the word _worthwhile_ sinking into the air between them. "Exactly."

"But-" She looks at James now. "I'm _totally_ up for this fight-" She glances away, letting the words sink in. "And-erm-I've thought about the reason why-and the reason _is_ -because I think this goes _way_ beyond Ed-as an individual."

She gathers the words in her mouth, remembering Anna's few words to her earlier, as they were entering the cafe. "You and Ed are a team. And you're fighting for things to be better than everyone else. We need it to be a big-picture election, remember, that's-that's Greg's thing."

"I think it's about whether decencies-and principle- _count_ for something in political life-" She holds James' gaze, letting herself fall into the rhythm of the arguments they've gone over, the familarity of it making her voice a little louder. "Wherever you are on the political spectrum-and so, it's not just about Ed-" She glances down, collecting her thoughts, marshalling them together. "But it's about-every single politician-" She nods to herself slightly, the sheer rightness of the message sinking in all over again. "Who _tries_ to do the right thing-despite the personal attacks."

She glimpses Anna and Rachel out of the corner of her eye. Anna's grinning madly, which is nothing new, but Rachel gives her a thumbs-up. Justine looks back up at James with renewed vigour, her heart beating harder, the way it does when she knows she's right in court, when she's making people see things the way they should be.

"And _I_ think it's incredibly important that this country-political life in this country stays open-" Bob's words echo in her head. "To decent, principled people." She takes a breath. "So, I-you know-if you ask me why I'm up for a fight-" She looks away, collecting her thoughts, remembers all over again, sitting in those seats, listening to her grandfather talk, his fist clenching as he spoke, Justine's heart beating with how right it was.

"I'm fighting not only for Ed-" She nods, reminding herself of this, of what they have to do. "But I'm fighting for a principle of-decency in public life."

James nods once, with a small smile. Justine allows herself to glance at Anna and Rachel.

It isn't just Anna who's grinning, now. Rachel is too, sticking both thumbs up at her. Justine smiles back, but in her chest, her heart bangs and bangs and bangs, and somehow, it hurts.

* * *

"What the _hell-"_ Ed glances at the door, his voice lowering into a furious hiss as he stands an inch away from David's chest. "What are you-what are you fucking doing here-"

David glances around. "It's a nice bathroom, Miliband, but I wouldn't do the interview in here, to be honest."

"Would you shut the fuck up?"

"Language."

David genuinely thinks Miliband might kill him. He has to turn away, biting his lip, at the furious look on Miliband's face, his dark eyes glittering.

"I'll give you fucking-" Miliband glances at the door, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "What are you fucking- _doing_ here, you're-"

"Well, you weren't answering."

Miliband blinks. David holds up his phone.

Miliband's eyes bulge. "That's _it?"_

David feels himself falter slightly. "Well." He takes a breath, dredging up all his usual smoothness, arches his eyebrow slightly. "I thought we might need to talk. About things."

Miliband looks like he might explode. David doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or not.

"We don't need to-" Miliband almost spits the words out. His shoulders rise and fall once, sharply. "We don't need to bloody _talk_ about anything."

"Well, we do, really, don't we?"

Miliband's head raises and he stares back at David, his eyes narrowed. "Juth-st go home." The words are forced out through gritted teeth, but his voice cracks ominously and he looks away. "You shouldn't even be here."

"Ed." David says the word before he can stop himself, the name softer in his mouth. Miliband looks up at him sharply, his chest almost touching David's.

"We need to-" David clears his throat, but his own voice is smaller. "We need to talk about. What happened."

Ed's eyes dart away from his own. David nearly reaches out, lets his hand fall on his arm. He has to grip his wrist to keep it at his side.

"Not now." Ed's voice when it comes is barely audible, his lips almost moving silently. "Not-you need to go-"

"I didn't know this was happening today, all right?"

One look at Miliband's face says he doesn't believe him.

David sighs, spreads his hands. "Look, cards on the table-I really didn't, all right? I promise."

Ed snorts. David rolls his eyes. "Look, _you're_ the one who wouldn't answer the phone." He turns to pace back and forth in the small space. "I told you I was going to come and talk to you."

"I didn't look at the text."

"What?"

"I didn't look at the _text."_ Miliband's voice is a little louder this time. He blinks, hands holding his elbows defensively, as though hugging himself.

David stops, his throat suddenly oddly fully. "Why?"

Ed's lips move silently, as he looks away. "Becauthe-" His fingers grip white around his elbows. "Becauthe I-"

David can't look, suddenly-he looks away, swallowing hard, his own fingers lacing themselves together.

"Look, I'll go" he says, too loudly, but all that matters is that Ed stops talking. "I'll go, just-we need to talk about it, all right? We can't-we can't just-"

Miliband looks away from him with a long, shuddering breath. David has to squeeze his fingers together. They want to unfurl. They want to fold onto Miliband's shoulder. Into his hair. They want to do dangerous things.

"We need to talk about it" he says, again, when Miliband won't look at him. "I need to-we need to talk about it."

Ed still doesn't look at him, but his chin jerks a little in a quick, sharp nod.

"Good." David doesn't realise he's been holding his breath until he releases it. "Right. Good."

"You have to go, though." Ed had shaken his head. "You. You have to-before Justine gets back, she-you have to go-"

David holds up his hands. "I'm gone. I'm gone."

"Well, you're not." Ed's mouth twitches into what could almost be a smile. Almost.

David glances down. "Well, obviously."

Ed takes a long, deep breath, drags his hands through his hair. David has to hold his hands very firmly at his sides.

"You need to-I'll get Patrick to take James upstairs or th-something, you can get out-" and David notices how neither he nor Miliband have needed to clarify that they can't know.

"Happy anniversary" he teases, to drag his thoughts away from the sudden squeeze of that in his chest, and because this is what he does, for Ed.

Miliband blinks. "What?"

"Well, not quite." David glances at his watch. "It was the-er-the 11th last month. After that PMQs. And now it's the 9th, so-"

"Don't fucking th-say _that."_ Miliband's scandalised look makes David grin. "It's not a fucking _anniversary-"_

"Well, it sort of is-"

"Anyway, what-how did you know?" Miliband gives him a sudden odd look, head on one side. "Have you been-God, keeping _track_ or something-"

"No." David says it too quickly, heat creeping into his cheeks. "I just-happened to notice."

Ed eyes him for a long moment. David forces himself to stare back, even as his face grows warmer.

The corner of Ed's mouth twitches in what could almost have been a smile, but instead he just takes a breath and says "Right. I'll get Patrick. We need to get you out in five minutes."

"Lovely hospitality."

"Shut up."

"And on our anniversary, too."

"Oh, would you just _shut up-"_

David bites his lip and turns away from Miliband, that squeezing sensation filling his chest again, unsure if he wants to laugh or, bizarrely, cry.

* * *

"Do you ever discuss issues and do you ever-" James pauses, hands still stretched out in front of him. "You know, i-not _advise_ your husband, but just-just give him your reaction to things?"

Justine pauses, searching for the right way to fold the Leveson mention in-Tom had mentioned this question-"All of the wives will get asked it-do you advise, do you tell them your views, yada-yada-yada. It'll fit in well with the 2011 speech stuff."

"I think it's more that we-" Justine glances back at James. "We're _married,_ so-" She hates how defensive her voice sounds, almost questioning.

"-we talk about things that happen-"

James' understanding nod makes it worse.

"-to crop up-and-erm-I remember-" She takes a deep breath, trying to even her words out. "I remember-one of the clearest examples, actually, that has stayed with me on that is-"

She forces herself to hesitate slightly, not rush the words out.

"We were-going to work one morning in a car-and the radio came on with the news-and the news had just broken about phone-hacking-"

It's not actually untrue. They were in the car that morning, driving to work-they'd been married a couple of months by then, but Justine was still uncomfortable with Ed's car driving to work. Even if Ed didn't get out of the car, it would be him everyone saw at her offices, not her.

She'd been fiddling with her ring, she remembers, still getting used to having it on. Originally, she'd thought they might be able to get away with not having an engagement ring, but Tom and Bob had been quite keen on it-"It looks better." They'd heard the news on the radio-she doesn't remember what Ed had said, but he'd been upset, she'd remembered, and she'd thought maybe she should do something about it, put a hand on his arm or something. She'd tried squeezing his elbow, she thinks now, and said "Well-you can stand up to it, can't you? You can say something today-"

Ed had glanced at her, and Justine had nodded, partly to herself, partly to him, because this was what their jobs were for. It was what they were meant to be doing.

"I mean-" She'd squeezed his arm. "You know-you're the one who's willing-who's prepared to stand up to this stuff."

"And about how _low_ , some-some journalists had-had, had gone in-in pursuit of the news. And-" She thinks back, trying to summon up the outrage she'd felt that morning, hoping it crackles through her voice, even as she remembers sinking her fingers into it gratefully, as it gave her and Ed something to do. Something to fight against.

"We just were totally shocked-" She presses her hand to her chest. "That kind of immediate human-" She keeps looking at James, taking energy from each nod.

"Reaction-and-erm-" She remembers, in a rush. _"Sickened,_ actually-"

She ticks the word off mentally, keeps her eyes down, her breathing steady, remember this, get through it. "And then-we talked about it-and then-"

She looks up as she says it. "Quite quickly, for someone like Ed, it becomes a question of-not just of that human reaction, but "What am I going to do about this?""

The words are more certain now; she even feels more convinced herself with each one, remembering, even more proud. The same feeling she'd had as a child, when she'd stared at that word _worthwhile_ in the dictionary, until it blurred before her eyes. It was something worthwhile. That's what she and Ed fight for.

"And we just talked briefly-" She glances back at James. "But it was back in 2011-" She smiles slightly. "And you didn't-you didn't take on News International in 2011, so it felt pretty-" She raises her eyebrows. "Pretty serious."

James nods at her. Justine swallows. The next part is definitely true, and she's not sure if that makes it easier to say.

"And then, erm-I wa-remember being on the Tube on the way home-" Tom will be pleased with that.

"Had a copy of the _Evening Standard_ , and my eyes caught the headline-"

She remembers this. But she'd looked for it, really, knowing something had happened-no one would bring Ed up to her at the office, too worried about being PC and not defining a woman by her husband, but she could always tell when something had happened, and whether it meant she was going to have to prepare what to say to him if she saw him that evening or not.

But that day, she'd felt something buzzing in her chest, the same way it did when she knew she had the outline of a good argument for a case-a strange, heightened purpose, a rapid beat that almost made a sound, the need to do something almost scrambling out of her chest. So when she'd sat down on the Tube and picked up a paper, she'd had to stop herself from grabbing for it, her fingers vibrating-not shaking exactly, but vibrating, almost in time with her heartbeat-as she'd picked it up, the headline wavering irritatingly before her eyes for a few seconds before she could read it clearly.

"And it said something like _"Miliband Calls For News International To-"_ She shakes her head. "Mmm-whatever _-"Murdoch To Resign-""_

She remembers reading the headline over and over again, her heart beating faster and faster. She hadn't wanted to scream or shout-there had just been a sense of _he's done that._

_He's done that. Thank God._ And the fast beat of her heart had been something a lot more like relief.

"And I remember thinking-you know-"Go-he's-he's gone ahead and _done_ that-"-and-and that felt pretty-err-"

She doesn't actually remember how it felt. It hadn't been satisfaction. She'd stared at that headline over and over again during that Tube journey, that feeling reverberating through her chest over and over again. _Thank God. Thank God._

"Pretty-nervy-and-erm-I remember not being quite sure how it would all play out-erm-but I thought-" She nods to herself, because this she remembers, even if it's not quite what she's going to say.

"You've-just shown-you know-" She glances at James. "You've got-you've got the guts to do things that people wouldn't expect."

It had been that. But there'd been another thing, underneath, as she'd sat there on the Tube, gripping the paper, staring at an image of her husband on the front page. _We're doing something._

_We're doing something. We're making things better._

_It's worth it. I was right. I was right to marry you._

"You talk about him-proving that he had the guts to do that-"

"Yeah-"

"As though he'd been-perhaps not expected to do that-" James leans on his left elbow. "Do you think your husband has been underestimated before? You know, to begin with, do you think it's changed now-what do you think the sort of-trajectory has been of that?"

"I think they probably have done, definitely." Justine almost answers too quickly-it's something that fits Ed. Fits what they're trying to do. People who are right are always underestimated, at first. "Whether they do now, I don't know."

"And do you think-do you think you've seen your husband's _character_ change over the time-it's been four years since he became leader-"

Justine nods.

"Do you think he's changed or people's impressions of him have changed over time-do you notice a-a _delineation_ , if you like, between who he is now and who he was at the start, when he became leader?"

Justine hesitates, weighing the words in her mouth. "I don't-" She pauses. "I don't think he has _changed_ -as much as he has been tested-"

She doesn't really know if Ed's changed. Maybe some of his policies have.

"-and probably-what _I-"_ She touches her own chest. "-saw before, more people see now. The-the characteristics that people see now-" She feels each word carefully, nodding to herself with each one, remembering that moment on the Tube, staring at the headline, that feeling, with each heartbeat, _I was right._

"The values, the determination to-stand up to people-to force through change-"

_I was right to marry you._

"None of that is a surprise to me-" She looks straight at James. "Because I saw those characteristics before."

James nods. Justine lets herself breathe slightly.

"You are a-an eloquent barrister-"

Justine smiles, feels something warm unfold in her chest.

"How do you feel in this more-silent spouse role? You know, has there been-is there anyone you look to for advice or for inspiration, is there a-a particular task you set yourself?" James smiles at her. "Last one, I promise."

Justine manages to laugh slighly, even as she tries to tap down the irritated spike that had reared in her chest at his previous few words.

"I-look, I'll be honest-" She tries to laugh again slightly. "It's been a bit of a-rollercoaster ride for me, personally-"

James nods.

"You know, it's very-daunting to step into this kind of-role-" She shakes her head. "There's no rulebook or manual-you just have to sort of-muddle your way through, picking my way through, essentially-there's-I think-I think there's a sort of common feeling amongst political spouses-" She remembers Frances mentioning this in an interview a few years ago suddenly, and seizes on it gratefully. "That-this is a slightly unusual life, so-while I wouldn't say I-set out to _model_ myself on anyone-there is, you know, a shared sort of- _understanding_ , so to speak, of the kind of challenges you face-particularly as women with our own careers, who are in-you know, placed in the public eye.. _because_ of our partners' careers, you could say."

James nods. "And that must be difficult-is there a reason that you chose to-for lack of a better term, appear in public as a political spouse, when-you could have-some would say you could have chosen not to appear at party conferences, not to appear at your husband's speeches-to assert yourself as-individually, for lack of a better phrase?"

Justine's hands wrap tightly together. She clenches her teeth, forcing herself to count slowly to ten.

"I-I suppose, I did feel that-there was also a danger that-I would be defined by my absence, if I-if I said nothing at all-" She forces herself to keep the words light. "I tried to keep focus on my own career, on my own work-you know, sort of occasionlly popping in and out of focus, at conferences and things-you know, some people suggested-"Oh, you'll be giving up your job then", when Ed first became leader and I was-genuinely astonished by that-"

No one had ever actually said that to Justine directly, but a few sidelong glances could be turned into a sentence or a quote. She's learnt that in law, at least.

"And, you know, there are ways in a legal career that things-while there definitely isn't complete equality there yet, certain measures do make women feel far more equal to the men, far less intimidated-" She looks at James. "Like, at the Bar, where I work-the wearing of wigs in court-that feels far less intimidating for a young female barrister up against a courtroom, where, say 75% of the barristers and judges are male. So I definitely didn't feel that I had to-" She has to force out the word. _"Prove_ myself in any way."

She has to take a deep breath.

"The only reason that I first gave a speech to Labour Party members at Labour Party Conference was because-" She has to force herself to laugh slightly. "I was so worried that by about three years in-all they knew about me was-" She bites the words out. "A dress I wore to Ed's speech."

It had been her who'd suggested it to Ed, a couple of years back-that she should say something. He'd been all for it, and so had Tom and Bob, since she was going to be taking a bigger role anyway, and Justine had had to look down to hide the hard nugget of relief in her chest, that there'd be something for her to do there. That she wouldn't have to just walk around after Ed, her voice taking on that singsong refrain-"I'm Ed Miliband's wife", a part of her disappearing further into her chest each time she said it, the same way it had lying there on maternity leave listening to Daniel or Sam mewl and whimper, demanding her attention, or at those awful toddler groups, almost feeling the word _Mummy_ stamped on her forehead, until she was terrified she was going to scream out loud.

"I thought-" She has to laugh slightly, to keep herself breathing. ""I really want to reassure people that I am, in fact, more than a dress!""

James laughs slightly. Justine breathes slowly. It's all right. It's all right. She's said the right thing.

"So-erm-that's why I started talking to people, to say-"

James is nodding.

"You know, "Look, I-I _am_ here-"" Justine's hands are out in front of her, pointing back to her, but almost, when she glances at them, like a gesture of surrender.

""I _am_ more than a dress-" Her voice nearly quavers, but not quite. "This is-this is who I am."

She stops, staring at James, aware that she's breathing hard. James smiles. "And I think that's-I think that's it."

Justine's shoulders sink slowly. She doesn't slump with relief, but she lets herself breathe slower, in and out.

James is nodding, smiling. Matthew is too, in the corner, slowly letting himself nod back and forth. Anna and Rachel are grinning-Anna so hard her eyes have nearly disappeared-both of them flashing her thumbs up.

Justine ducks her head down and lets herself breathe in, savouring that feeling in her chest, _Thank God, Thank God._

The same way she had on the Tube. The same way she had, hearing Tom confirm she'd make a speech.

I got it right. I got it right.

This is-this is who I am.

The words echo in her mind, almost like a plea. Justine curls her fingers hard into that feeling in her chest, snatching it down, hoarding it under her ribs.

She got every word right.

They're doing the right thing.

They're doing what they're supposed to do.

* * *

Ironically, getting out of Miliband's house is the less stressful part. Patrick gets Torsten and James into the living room under the pretext of checking they've scattered the right photos of the boys around-David had raised his eyebrows at Miliband, who had scowled furiously, folding his arms across his chest-and manages to get the door closed behind him, with the whispered instruction to "Get out. Five minutes, get out."

David, luckily, has seen ahead, and is already carrying Florence, Nancy and Elwen following along behind him. Florence is grumpy, ponytail slapping David's cheek as she tosses her little head about.

"Sam's mummy and daddy are very busy" he tells her, carrying her up the steps.

"Yeah, they've got to-they've probably got to do work or something" Elwen says, reaching up to try to take Flo's hand.

"Watching Peppa _Pig."_ Flo tilts her head back to stare indignantly at David, her little mouth creased into a pout.

"Well-" David wracks his brains as they reach the top of the stairs-any moment now, if Torsten or James hears a small voice in the hallway, one of them could come to investigate. "If I talk to Mr Ed Miliband-maybe you could-Sam could come over to play soon-"

It's a shot in the dark, but Ed, standing at the top of the stairs, widens his eyes at David furiously. David mouths _"What?"_ at him over Florence's head-if Florence has a tantrum, it won't be David's team that find out the whole thing.

Miliband stops just short of outright pushing them outside, David rolling his eyes at the way his shoulders finally sink with relief as he pulls the door almost shut behind them once they're on the doorstep. "Lovely manners" he compliments him in an undertone, only for Miliband to glower at him furiously.

"OK, Flo, say goodbye-" David holds her out to press a quick kiss to Ed's cheek, knowing somehow that it will piss Miliband off more than anything, and in the same moment, feeling a pang of guilt.

Miliband gives him a frantic look as he pulls Flo back, with a glance at the front door. David meets his gaze over the kids' heads. "And we'll have to meet to discuss that" he says, casually, as if they could be talking about anything. "When you're next free."

Miliband's eyes narrow, but when he speaks, his voice is commendably steady. "Wednesday. After PMQs."

David feels a jolt of something in his stomach at the thought of what usually happens. (Jesus, how has it become _usual?)_

But he manages to nod at Miliband and head off down the pavement, with Nancy and Elwen already a little ahead of him, though Elwen waves at Ed over his shoulder.

Nancy glances back too, though she doesn't wave. "What do you need to talk to him about?"

David juggles Flo to his other hip, brushing her ponytail back. "Don't be sulky" he tells her, as Flo pouts, and David presses his cheek to hers, breathing in the familiar scent of her raspberry baby shampoo. "Erm-just some of the things that are going to be happening in the campaigns, Nance. We sometimes need to arrange to be at the same places some days, so we need to-you know, let each other know what we're doing."

Nancy nods, but she's quiet at his side, glancing up at him every few steps. David meets her gaze, her blue eyes slightly darker than Flo's, these days sharper, more thinking.

"Why did he and Justine go early yesterday?" she asks, and David kisses Flo's head again, hoping she doesn't feel his heart quicken, as Elwen kicks a stick along the pavement, coat hanging loosely at his elbows.

"They had to get back to start planning-remember how we had the interviews last week?" He glances at Nancy, who's pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "He and Justine have got to do theirs today. Not with the same people, though. With James-you remember, the one who's coming for lunch in a couple of weeks?"

"Is that why they were at the park?" David steers Elwen round to Nancy's other side, so none of the children are walking near the road.

"Yeah."

"Daniel said their faces get filmed" Nancy says suddenly, looking up at David. "They have to smile and things."

David feels his jaw tighten as they reach the ministerial car. "Do they?"

"Yeah." Nancy leans against him suddenly, her head pressing into his side. "They don't like it."

"They told you that?"

Nancy doesn't answer this, just sliding into the back of the car when the driver opens the door for them. David walks Elwen round to the other side, before climbing in with Florence, chucking her under the chin as he fastens her seatbelt. "We'll stop at Yo Sushi for dinner and get something for Mummy, how about that?"

Nancy nods, watching him a moment longer, eyes big and blue, but when David glances back, she just reaches over and tickles Flo's chin, lifting up her lips in a smile.

* * *

"I think my answer to that would be that-look, let the polls take care of themselves." Ed's sitting on the sofa in the living room, James at the other end, the cameras several inches away. Bob and Tom are sitting on the opposite couch under the window, watching, while Matt is perched in a nearer armchair.

Ed's heart is still racing.

Cameron left the house ten minutes before Justine even arrived home, but Ed hasn't been able to shake the feeling that he's going to pop out from the basement any second. He hadn't even been able to go back down and ask Zia how long he'd been there-the second he was out the door, he'd had Patrick to deal with.

"What the hell was that?"

Ed had fumbled, adjusting the zipper of his jersey nervously. "It was-a logisticth discussion."

Patrick had shrugged. "So why weren't we there?"

Ed had opened his mouth and closed it. "It wath a-mithcommunication."

Patrick had stared at him. "A miscommunication?"

Ed had swallowed.

Patrick had glanced away, then back, lowering his voice. "Look, I know Cameron, all right?"

Ed had blinked. "What-"

"I know when he's being evasive and I fucking well know when you're being evasive."

Patrick had looked like he was going to say more, but had glanced past Ed into the living room where James had been adjusting that photograph of Daniel and Sam that Justine had found-they were meant to be positioning them around the room, to get them into shot-one nursery photograph of Daniel that Ed hasn't seen in years has reappeared, placed on a stand in the dining room so that it can be caught in the back of the shot with the French doors open.

"Sort it" was all Patrick had said, before he'd tugged Ed, none too gently, into the living room, leaving Ed with yet another reason to curse Cameron's name.

When Justine had come through the door ten minutes later, pressing her lips to his cheek in a kiss that lasted a little too long, Ed had glanced at Patrick anxiously, but-apart from his gaze lingering a second, Patrick, to his surprise, had said nothing. A second later, it had made sense-they were setting cameras up in the kitchen, and they wanted a few quick shots before the final interview, with just Ed and James in the living room.

"We just need you drinking tea" the cameraman had said, clapping his hands together. "Just talk amongst yourselves."

"Something innocuous" Bob had muttered to them a second later. "Just in case they pick the dialogue up without us realising."

"How was it?" Ed had managed to ask awkwardly, as much as he could with his heart thudding every time he'd thought of Cameron's words down in that basement.

_"Ed." Cameron's waiting for him, leaning against the side of the house, when Ed makes his way back through the gate, his heart still trying to break out of his chest. "Ed. Wait."_

_Ed almost slaps his hand away, as Cameron grabs his sleeve. "Are you serious?" He's half-shouting the words, forcing them into a furious whisper at the last moment as Cameron shushes him furiously. "Are you-are you having a-do you even-it was your daughter,_ _for God's sake-"_

_"It's all right-it's all right, it's all right, Nance doesn't know-"_

_Ed thinks, really thinks, for a moment, that he might scream._

_David's hand had slid up the moment they'd heard the knock on the car door-before Ed could even register anything more than_ _OhGodnoplease_ , _Cameron's hand was over his mouth. Ed's heart had been pounding as he'd turned his head slowly to look at him._

_David had pressed their foreheads together, their noses touching. Ed's breath had shuddered in his chest._

_"Stay here for ten minutes" David had murmured, his lips barely moving. "I'll get out now. After ten minutes, come in and say that I asked you to check for one of Flo's toys, if anyone asks."_

_Ed had stared at him, mind scrambling for what the hell to say next, but David had just pressed his forehead to Ed's, their noses squashed together, their cheeks brushing, before he'd been up, reaching for the door._

_"Are you fucking-you think that's the fucking point-"_

"It was-" Now, as they awkwardly waited for the kettle to boil, painfully aware of the camera equipment filling the small kitchen, Justine had been leaning back against the kitchen cabinets. Watching her, Ed had felt a painful tug of something in his chest, his hands flexing at his sides, and he'd turned away.

"Yeah, it went well." Justine had given him a slight smile, her hip almost brushing his-Ed had had to fight an urge to pull away. "It-we managed to-I think we managed to cover everything we talked about, we got all the points across-"

"Did you, th-sweetie?" Ed had tried not to grimace at the taste of the word on his lips.

"Ed-" Tom had tapped his elbow. "You're going to-if you have the blue-and-white mug-"

"OK-"

"Yeah, it went well" Justine had said, with a smile.

Ed had looked away then back, then pressed his lips to her cheek in a kiss. Justine had glanced at him, surprised.

"Thank you" he'd said, and then he'd looked away, even as Justine had awkwardly taken his hand and squeezed it, not even letting himself think of what he was thanking her for.

Ed doesn't even remember what they talked about in the kitchen, standing there while the cameras were rolling-he'd mainly let Justine talk, sipping his tea without tasting it and wincing as it burnt his tongue.

"Zia was saying to me that-she was saying to Sam-that-yesterday-" Justine had been telling him something, something Zia had told her about the boys, and Ed had nodded, but he hadn't even been sure when Justine would have talked to Zia. She definitely hadn't this afternoon when she'd arrived. It could have been a story from years ago.

"-that you can't have the mash if you don't eat the carrots-" Justine had been saying, smiling at nobody, and it had suddenly struck Ed that now, even though she'd said Sam's name, he wasn't even sure which one of the boys she was talking about and he wasn't sure if Justine was either.

* * *

_"Just leave me alone." Ed bites the words out furiously, telling himself the stinging in his eyes is from the smoke. "Let go of me."_

_Cameron steps forward. "You're upset."_

_Ed almost jerks away from him. "I'm not fucking upthet." The lisp makes his voice tremble and this time, it's Cameron following him._

_"We shouldn't have fucking done thith" he says, and he's not even sure who he's saying it to._

Now, James leans back slightly, lifts his hands. "But-you can say that when you say you're not worried about the poor opinion polls-in a way, that could come across as very _naive_ -and it could turn out to be a _regret_ in eight weeks' time."

"Look." Ed holds out his hand, running through the words quickly in his head. "The polls, on their own-they're the polls. I'm conth-cerned about the message we're putting forward for the country. _That'th_ what I'm concerned about, and-if the message is getting through, let'th juth-st see what happens. Because we've had negative poll ratings before and we've had people th-saying-we couldn't come back from thiths before and-you know what _I_ think people underestimate about me is, I'm much more resilient than they thought."

He can see Bob giving him a thumbs-up. Ed glances back at James. "A-and-people have undered-estimated me in the past-and let's see what the ele- the result of this election is."

"But it must affect you, when you see these ratings?" James is watching him closely. "These-people's, the public's opinions of you?"

"Look-ratings are ratings. And-people can write what they want to write about me." Don't engage on the polls, Tom had drilled into him yesterday. _Sidetrack it. Put it back on the media. Make it seem it's them with the problem._

"I don't really _care_ what people throw at me." Ed swallows hard, at James' slightly amused smile, the flush of his cheeks. It suddenly occurs to him that James would have been at Eton at the same time as Cameron.

"Right? People have thrown a _lot_ at me-in four years-"

_"Miliband, come on-"_

"I don't really _care_ about it." Ed hears his voice rise defensively, like a teenager's, and curses himself, but at least he said it.

_Ed keeps walking, knowing Cameron can't follow him too closely. But he can't go back to the others either. Instead, he presses his back against a tree trunk, closing his eyes, telling himself that if his cheeks are wet, it's from the fine late-night mist, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes and waiting, waiting until he can turn around and pretend that he doesn't even remember._

"Do you not sometimes fear that they-the British public made up their mind four and a half years ago?"

Ed's already shaking his head.

"And they said-hmmm -"This is the bloke who looks a bit odd, who's a bit leftie-""

Ed feels something squeeze tightly in his chest.

James looks at him over his glasses. "Who shafted his brother-"

Tom makes an odd, convulsive movement on the opposite sofa. But Bob lays a hand on his arm. Both of them are still, eyes on Ed, waiting.

James lifts his hands. "And then they stopped listening?"

Ed stays very still for a long moment, holding onto the words.

Don't be angry with the electorate. Never be angry with the electorate.

"I don't think they _have_ stopped listening-I think the country are-"

He's seized with a sudden, violent impression of Cameron's fingers digging into his sleeve and then he can feel the car handle pressing into his back, Cameron's fingers stroking his bare stomach, a hunger, hot and needing, unfurling in his stomach.

"I think the country are thoroughly fed up with David Cameron's government-with austerity, _wrecking_ the lives of the most vulnerable, and when you look at in that context, do you know-actually, it's not _about_ me." He looks straight back at James, his voice growing louder. "In the end, it's an opportunity for the British people to make their decision-about what kind of country do they _want_? One that works only for a few at the top under David Cameron or a government under me that works for everyone?"

James gives him a long look, then glances over at the cameraman. "OK, I think that's-yeah, we've got it, haven't we-what we-"

"I think that was-" Bob glances at Tom, then at Matthew. "I think that was-that's pretty much everything we needed, yeah-"

Ed sits still, hoping no one can see his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Hoping no one can see his heart, beating a rapid bruise against his chest, feeling his own voice splintering into the air. _"We can't do this."_

Feel the phone pressing into his cheek later that night, in the ensuite, Cameron's voice tickling his ear.

Ed lets the other voices in the room wash over him, concentrates on breathing in very slowly and surely, eyes lingering unseeingly on that nursery photo of Daniel, and not remembering.

* * *

_It's later that Saturday night._

_David 's waited until everyone's in bed. He knows Miliband well enough by now. Plus, there's no way Miliband will fall asleep straight away. He'll stay up late torturing himself about something or other._

_David feels a lurch in his stomach at that._

_No, he tells himself. If he hadn't given Miliband something to torture himself about, he'd probably have just looked up a reissued version of Das Kapital or something on his phone, and read himself into a pit of depression._

_Sam had fallen asleep almost straight away next to him, but David still waits ten minutes before he gets out of bed and makes his way into the ensuite bathroom._

_He counts to six before Miliband picks up his phone._

_"What the fuck are you doing?"_

_David glances at himself in the mirror, sees himself smile slightly, almost sadly._

_"I knew you'd answer your phone."_

_"I didn't know you'd fucking call."_

_"Yes, you did."_

_David bites his lip the moment he's said it, but it's too late._

_Miliband's silent on the other end. David waits. He knows Miliband._

_Then, "What the fuck do you want?"_

_"Got a mouth on you at night, haven't you?"_

_He hears Miliband's breath stutter on the other end of the phone and hesitates, his own heart pounding._

_"I wanted to know you were all right" is what he says slowly, measuring each word. "That you're OK."_

_Miliband laughs. David rolls his eyes. "Just a straight answer, Miliband."_

_Miliband laughs again. "From you?"_

_David sighs. "I was worried about you."_

_"I bet you were terrified."_

_"Yeah, I couldn't sleep. I was having terrible visions of you lying away, unable to solve the last side of a Rubik's Cube."_

_"You sound fucking devastated."_

_"Are you?"_

_"What?"_

_"All right?"_

_Miliband laughs again, but the sound quavers slightly. "Why wouldn't I be?"_

_David just waits in silence._

_"Ith that all you wanted?" David closes his eyes at the attempt at bravado in Miliband's voice. It makes something curl up in his chest._

_"No" he says quietly._

_Miliband's silence is louder than anything else. David listens to him breathe, mouths his name silently._

_"I liked-" David clears his throat, tries to dampen his lips. "I liked that. In the car."_

_He hears Miliband's slight intake of breath, and closes his eyes._

_"Don't say anything" he whispers. "Just...don't say anything, Miliband."_

_There's silence._

_"Did-"_

_Don't ask him. Don't ask him._

_"Did you-"_

_Miliband's breath catches._

_David closes his eyes, tries to breathe slowly. "Miliband" he manages, softly. "I wasn't-I don't know if-"_

_"What?" Miliband's voice is soft._

_David shakes his head. "Just-" He bites his lip. "I didn't know if you-"_

* * *

_Ed's breath catches._

_Cameron's voice is almost a whisper on the other end and Ed has to squeeze his eyes shut, the sound curling up in his chest. He wants to touch it. Stroke it._

_"Did you-"_

_Ed doesn't know if he's begging for him to finish the question or not._

_"I-" His own voice is ragged, a whisper. "I just-"_

_David shakes his head. "You don't need to-you didn't-"_

_"I-" Miliband's voice is muffled, small, little shuddering breaths creeping through the phone._

_David says his name, almost unsure whether or not he's speaking aloud._

_"I liked it" he whispers._

* * *

_Ed's breathing hard at the other end of the phone, his fingers slipping against it. He can feel his cheeks burning, his lips moving silently._

_"I didn't want you to-I didn't want you to be-" He can hear Cameron's voice, but what he's feeling is inside that car, the handle digging into his back, Cameron's mouth at his ear._

_"OK-" Miliband's voice is soft. "OK-"_

_"Yeah."_

_"OK."_

_"It's all right-" David's thoughts are a flood in his head, Miliband's name swimming with the wine through his blood. "It's all right."_

_"We're all right" he says suddenly, breathing hard. "We're all right."_

_"Yeah-"_

_"We're just-we're just-it was-we-I liked it, Miliband."_

_The words hover there between them, rippling out through the air._

_"Cameron." Ed's voice, when it comes, is almost tearful. He closes his eyes, hiding behind his eyelashes. "Cameron."_

_"Shhhh." David's voice is soft, tickles Ed's ear. "Shhh, Miliband. Just-listen-let-let me-"_

_They're both breathing hard now._

_"It's-we're not doing anything-" David's voice is a whisper, sending Ed's heart pounding harder and harder, his mouth dry, something aching in his chest. "We're not doing anything. We're fine."_

_"Cameron-"_

_The breathy sound of Miliband's voice in his ear makes David breathe harder too. He closes his eyes again, one arm hugged around his chest, almost able to push his mouth into Miliband's dark hair. His heart's pounding, and he can feel those kisses, Miliband's fingers trembling, taking each one greedily, letting himself take it, and the thought sends a hot shudder down through David's body._

_"We're not doing anything-" He's whispering, even as his hand rubs slow, restless circles against his stomach, even as Miliband's breath shudders again on the other end. "We're-we're not-we're-"_

_Ed bites his lip, tilts his head back. He's noticing bizarre things. The heat from the towel rail a few inches away. The fact that the soap by the shower's still in its' packet. The way Cameron's voice sounds the same as when he's kissing and touching until Ed's dizzy._

_"Cameron-" He bites his lip harder, his hips wriggling, desperate for something, something to hold onto, to grip-_

_David squeezes his eyes shut. "Mili-Miliband-" His fingers are circling, exploring, wandering down, not sure if he's imagining Miliband's fingers or Miliband's skin or just Miliband._

_Ed's hand clamps around his thigh, then moves up, stops, daring himself._

_"Are you-are you-" His voice shakes. "C-Cameron-"_

_"N-no." Cameron's voice is too quick. "No."_

_"No."_

_"Are you-"_

_Ed's fingers are reaching, shaking. "No-" His voice is low, gasping, heart beating harder and harder. "I'm not doing anything."_

_"I'm not-" Cameron's voice stops with an effort. Then, "We're not doing-"_

_Ed shakes his head, one hand fumbling, trying to wedge the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, fingers pressing over his mouth._

* * *

_David can't tell if it's Miliband's breathing shaking or his own. If it's Miliband's heartbeat or his own._

_"We're-" His voice is a whisper, and then his hand wraps around himself, half-under and half-over his pyjamas, and he has to turn his face to the side and press his mouth half into his shoulder to muffle the frantic, delighted sound._

_Ed gasps at the noise, presses his own hand tighter against his mouth before having to grab frantically for the phone. "G-God-"_

_ OhGodohGodohGod- _

_"I'm not-I'm not-" Ed shakes his head, mouthing to no one._

_"No." Cameron's breathing hard, and Ed can feel his hands, those fingers exploring Ed's stomach, pleasure wriggling and twisting inside him. "You're not-we're not-"_

_Ed tilts his head back, and then his hand squeezes slightly, and he's groaning, half-stuffing his sleeve into his mouth, clamping his teeth down, the sound coming out as a high-pitched whimpering little moan._

_David pulls his bottom lip between his teeth when he hears that sound, an aching wave of pleasure rolling down through his body at that sound. "Uhh-" He hears the sound splutter out of his mouth, his hips jerking. "Oh f-f-fuck-"_

_Ed's breath shudders. "C-Cameron-" His sleeve's caught between his teeth now, Cameron's breathing rapid, hearing that moan. "C-Cameron-"_

_"F-f-G-God-" Cameron's voice is low, urgent. "Oh-fuck- fuck-"_

_Ed's hips are grinding against his hand, his teeth digging into his lip and his sleeve, pleasure tightening in his body, his head tossing back and forth, rubbing into his thigh. "F-fuck-fuck- C-Cameron-"_

_David hears that high-pitched note in Ed's voice and then it's over, pleasure suddenly twisting deep beneath his stomach and then shuddering out, warm and hot and David's head falls forward, grabbing his pyjama top between his teeth, groaning into the material, hips jerking back and forth, teeth grinding down on "Oh God-oh-f-f- fuck-Miliband-"_

_Ed's eyes squeeze shut tighter, and his teeth bite down on his sleeve, and then he's mouthing "Oh God-oh God-ahhhh- ahhhh-", everything pulling and swelling into a bursting wave that leaves his cheek pressed into the wall, legs trembling, giving way, frantic, high-pitched whimpers breaking free, gasping for air like he's drowning._

_David lets his head fall back against the wall with a low groan, and then opens his eyes slowly, hand sticky and realisation slowly dawning, cooling in his body._

_"Fuck." His voice is a whisper, and he hears Miliband gasping, phone pressing an imprint into his cheek._

_"I-" Miliband's voice is a half-moan, half-sigh-David closes his eyes and counts to three slowly._

_OK. OK. They can fix this._

_"We didn't do anything" he whispers. "Did we?"_

_Ed's vision swims slightly as he opens his eyes. His pyjamas are sticky against his skin, and his heart is pounding so hard the room almost wavers in front of him. Cameron's words settle in his chest and he doesn't know if he wants to sink his fingers into them or not._

_"Miliband-"_

_"No." Ed's voice is too quick, almost caught in his throat. "No. I-no. We didn't."_

_There's a silence, both of their hearts pounding. Then, "Miliband-"_

_"We didn't." Ed's voice is a whisper. "We didn't do anything. We're not doing anything."_

_Another long silence, hearts beating, and Ed presses his lips shut, closes his eyes, words clambering over each other, battering against his mouth._

_"OK." David's voice is a whisper. Neither of them know whether to be surprised or not._

_"Th-so-" Ed glances down at himself, his chest rising and falling slowly, but there's nothing to say, or nothing they want to say, anyway._

_"Sleep well."_

_Ed's eyes close at the words, soft in his ear, and when he whispers "Goodnight", he's sure he's only mouthed it._

_He takes one deep breath, then two, and then, as he starts to lower the phone, trying to pull his thoughts slowly back together, Cameron's voice touches his ear, quiet enough that they'll both pretend they didn't hear it at all, "Night, Miliband."_

* * *

_Playlist_

_Edit The Sad Parts-Modest Mouse _ _-"Sometimes I'm angry that I feel so angry/Sometimes my feelings get in the way..Our communications come in one-lined jokes/From stand up comics and rock musicians/Making so much noise you don't know when to listen/Why are you judging people so damn hard?/You're taking your points of view a bit too far/I made my shoes shine with black coal/But the polish didn't shine the hole"_

_Good Help (Is So Hard To Find)-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"You'll never have to hear the word "no"/If you keep all your friends on the payroll/The non-disclosure pages signed/Your secrets safe between those lines/The scaffolding will cheer and console you/But remember what your mother told you/That good help is so hard to find/For people that are so refined...High above the city from where you came/Didn't you know the air's so thin?/It starves the brain of oxygen/I know it's such a dangerous place/For there are more ascensions than there is space/Angels causing accidents/The camera phones'll document"_

_Tainted Love-Soft Cell _ _-"Sometimes I feel I've got to run away, I've got to get away/From the pain you drive into the heart of me/The love we share seems to go nowhere/And I've lost my light, for I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night"_

_Cath-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"Cath, she stands with a well-intentioned man/But she can't relax with his hands on the small of her back/And as the flashbulbs burst, she holds a smile/Like someone would hold a crying child...Cath, it seems, that you live in someone else's dream...And soon everybody will ask what became of you/And your heart was dying fast, and you didn't know what to do"_

_Every You Every Me-Placebo _ _-"Sucker love is heaven sent/You pucker up our passion spent/My heart's a tart your body's rent/My heart is broken yours' is spent/Carve your name into my arm/Instead of stressed I lie here charmed/Because there's nothing else to do/Every me and every you/Sucker love a box I choose/No other box I choose to use...And the shape of things to come/Too much poison come undone/'Cause there's nothing else to do/Every me and every you..Pucker up for heaven's sake/There's never been so much at stake/I serve my head up on a plate/It's only comfort, calling fate/'Cause there's nothing else to do/Every me and every you"_

_Close To Me-The Cure _ _-"I've waited hours for this/I've made myself so sick/I wish I'd stayed asleep today/I never thought this day would end/I never thought tonight could ever be/This close to me/Just try to see in the dark/Just try to make it work/To feel the fear before you're here/I make the shapes come much too close/I pull my eyes out/Hold my breath and wait until I shake"_

_All Of This-The Naked And Famous _ _-"I can't begin to explain/How we disassemble/The parts and frame...All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start...As the plans turn into compromise/The promises all turn to lies/Spite builds up and I can't get through/Passive me, aggressive you...In the time it took to get this bad/I could've made this work, but all I had/Was the hope that pieces would take shape/And we could watch them all fall into place/Fall into place, fall into place/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The filming the Milibands do in the park, at the house, and Justine's interview can be seen here:https://bbc.in/2UnPkyB  
> The background dialogue-deciding which way to go and the cameramen's instructions are at 00:00. Justine telling Daniel to look is at 00:03. Dialogue in Sam's POV can be seen from 0:07. Some of Justine's background dialogue is at 1:14. Daniel saying "We're not starting with this" is at 03:32. Ed saying "Would you rather be at school-" and the dialogue following is at 03:43-Justine grabbing Daniel's hand is at 03:44.  
> Longer sections of Justine's interview can be found here:https://bbc.in/2Jm1VMn  
> The other non-video bits of Justine's dialogue:https://bbc.in/3bxlKwj  
> Daniel being upset at the Durham Miners' Gala:https://bit.ly/2WPPall  
> Their motivation for filming the boys was to appear more normal:https://bit.ly/2UpnNwB  
> Ed at the Durham Miners' Gala:https://bit.ly/39rlv4y  
> The dress Nancy wears (or something similar):https://bit.ly/33RhHs0  
> https://bit.ly/2UoHc0I  
> Sam mentioned dressing the girls in Zara:https://bit.ly/39wPJ6o  
> Florence getting confused with the cars:https://bit.ly/2UqZJtB  
> https://bit.ly/3bxDRCh  
> Justine's speeches at Mary Ward House and Labour conference:https://bit.ly/2UHJlno  
> https://bit.ly/2Jp0LQe  
> Zia cooking for Ed and Justine:https://bit.ly/2WOEH9B  
> Frances' "common gang" comment:https://bit.ly/2yhUIe7  
> The Sky Budget Rap videos mentioned:https://bit.ly/2ULQq66  
> https://bit.ly/2xuPwmH  
> The "Jay" conflict reference:https://bit.ly/2UHaIxW  
> Ed's reference to Justine and phone-hacking:https://bit.ly/2wBhjSB  
> Sam talking about her tattoo:http://dailym.ai/3arFHo7  
> Blossom was a young girl in Bea's class who the Goves knew who passed away from cancer at the age of nine. A year later, her mother, a journalist, also died of cancer.http://dailym.ai/39pLR6U  
> https://bit.ly/2xs1UUx  
> https://bit.ly/33R5i7s  
> Justine having gone to private school:http://dailym.ai/2UI6Igy  
> Ed and Justine reading the The Election book:https://bit.ly/2WSEa6v  
> https://bit.ly/2vVBxG6  
> The Miliband kids having friends round and Matthew Laza being there:https://bit.ly/33TgZdP  
> https://bit.ly/2ybzPBa  
> Michael and Tom did reportedly take cocaine together:http://dailym.ai/2Jj4C1o  
> http://dailym.ai/2xsY39V  
> David going to The Bangles:https://bit.ly/2w0p446  
> Ed liking Monsoon:https://bit.ly/39poTgf  
> The Camerons liking boxsets:https://bit.ly/2QU0clM  
> Descriptions of Ed's home life:https://bit.ly/3dCcbOv  
> Justine being particular with the kids' food:https://bit.ly/2wNibmS  
> The two James' mentioned are one of Ed's pollsters and press officers:https://bit.ly/3dBGMvI  
> https://bit.ly/3asZcwv  
> Justine's "more than a dress" speech and insecurities:http://dailym.ai/2QUWDM5  
> http://dailym.ai/2xtdgHU  
> The Camerons at Cornbury:http://dailym.ai/2UrcAMa  
> http://dailym.ai/2UGFgzG  
> David's kids referencing "the blue team":https://bit.ly/2JlJ0S7  
> https://bit.ly/33QpmqK  
> Patrick is an Old Etonian:https://bit.ly/2QT8qL4  
> Chris L was at St Paul's with him:https://bit.ly/2WPPPmJ  
> Justine's opinion about barristers' wigs and her "defined by my absence" comment:https://bit.ly/2Uo8xQS  
> https://bit.ly/2xwqy6B  
> Her grandfather was a social affairs speaker in Wales:https://bit.ly/2UCuHgU  
> Dave and Sam are both smokers:http://dailym.ai/33QmdHq  
> https://bit.ly/39pP0DT  
> Ed had previously worked with Chris, his old teacher:https://bit.ly/2JnChHm  
> James L was at Eton with Dave:https://bit.ly/2Jjnqh3  
> Samantha was in New York on 9/11:https://bit.ly/2ygZ4SM  
> Laura and Alan were two of David's advisers:https://bit.ly/2wyKN3r  
> https://bit.ly/39qeFMz  
> https://bbc.in/39sE9ZP  
> The Wallace cartoon:http://dailym.ai/39wRlNu  
> Ed's photo ops speech:https://bbc.in/2QPeLXG


	7. Calculated Confectionery, A Pattern Of Paramours And The Felicitations Of Face-Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which there are three Davids and planes to Canada aren't readily available."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes for this chapter refer to George and Danny's friendship and the Olympics.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_It helped that Danny Alexander and George Osborne got on so well. They liked and respected each other and had a similar sense of humour...I sat just in earshot of Danny, reading my own papers but with one ear to the conversations going on. I was rather proud of Danny, my successor as Chief Secretary. When he had taken over from me in May 2010, people in the media doubted that this young and relatively inexperienced man could cut it as Chief Secretary, but Danny had undoubtedly grown into the role. **"His appetite for the work and his grasp for detail is** **awe-inspiring"** Nick Clegg had said privately to me. Of course, Danny could also be frustrating for many Lib Dems. He was the **"money man"** and the person who often had to say **"no"** to more public spending. There were also times when people, including Nick, felt he might have gone a bit native at the Treasury... Over the next few weeks, the debate about the Budget contents went back and forth between the coalition partners. Both Jonny Oates and I feared that what started off as being a clear strategy to agree a minimalist Budget could end up giving too much to the Conservative Chancellor to announce. We were also both worried that Danny Alexander might be tempted into being more cooperative with the Chancellor because of their close working relationship, combined with George Osborne's offer of a **"Lib Dem Budget Statement"** for Danny Alexander on the day after the Budget proper. Neither Jonny nor I regarded this as a big prize, and we thought it would look odd and be totally eclipsed by coverage of the previous day's **"real"** Budget.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_(Ed) had dated several women from the worlds of politics and the media-Liz Lloyd, Alice Miles and (the current BBC economics editor) Stephanie Flanders, with whom he split up not long before he started dating Justine.- Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_To the horror of some on the Labour left, it soon became emerged that the runners and riders for the post of chief of staff were even more to the right of Ed than (Lucy) Powell. The new leader was reaching out to the Blairites. First, he approached James Purnell to fill the role. But the former Blair aide and supporter of David, who dramatically quit Gordon Brown's Cabinet in June 2009, and then stood down from Parliament in May 2010, turned him down in November 2010.- Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_We were going through a period of absolute mania. I was getting really exasperated by the Big Four and by TB's inability to sort things out, and to stand up to the other three in a way that made them behave._

_It was so bad, the only thing to do was to laugh about it. I rechristened the children John, Robin and Gordon, and when Rory and Calum misbehaved, I threatened them with the sack.-25th November 1995, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_After the Budget next week, Danny (Alexander) is proposing to publish a paper which would set out the fiscal plans of the Libeal Democrats compared with the Conservatives'. What Will (de Peyer) said shocked me. He said that the Treasury is curently projecting a £13.7 billion current Budget surplus in 2017/18-and Danny was proposing to deliver exactly the same as the Tories. That would mean that the only difference between the Tories and us up to 2017/18 was that they would do more welfare cuts and we would do more tax rises... At 4.p.m went over to Nick's office for the weekly trilateral between Nick (Clegg), Danny (Alexander) and me. Nick had clearly spoken to Danny and made clear that he was not happy with projecting a £13.7 billion Budget surplus. Nevertheless, Danny was at his prickly best, and he went on-boringly-to lecture us all about how a balanced Budget was actually not a balanced Budget and it was only a cyclically adjusted balanced current Budget, and we would still be borrowing, blah, blah, blah.-11th March 2015, The Coalition Diaries: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_Osborne too shares credit for the survival of the coalition. His fall-out with Clegg contrasts with the loyalty and respect he shows to Danny Alexander, which is mutual. Their relationship is periodically stressed, particularly towards the end when Alexander chooses to present the Lib Dem **"Alternative Budget"** on 19 March (2015), the day after Osborne's own. The case for presenting their own spending figures is reasonable, but the theatrical form that Alexander chooses, together with a yellow Budget case, is thought to be risible, not only by Osborne and Cameron, but also the House at large, which is almost universally hostile. The worst moment in the Osborne/Alexander relationship comes during the election campaign when Alexander, troubled by Lib Dem ratings, leaks Treasury advice revealing that IDS has sent the Treasury a proposal for nearly £8 billion of cuts in welfare. Osborne responds quickly by text: **"Come on, I thought we'd agreed not to do this! Hope all's going well for you in Inverness."** -Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Then the Games begin-and the mood changes completely. A tidal wave of warmth spreads throughout the country and seems to draw everyone together. We are a proud nation once again, bowled over by the eccentric creativity of Danny Boyle's opening ceremony, gathering in parks and pubs to cheer on our fabulous athletes. The success of the Olympics and Paralympics gives us a short reprise from the negative press coverage, as the gaze of the media is diverted to London's stadiums and parks, but we know it will not last. David is caught up in the patriotic mood, and tries to get to as many events as he can in between seeing foreign leaders who are over to support their teams. Putin and he bond over a judo match. In No. 10 we feel literally to be part of the beach volleyball stadium, which has been erected practically in the back garden. Our daily meetings are interrupted by the roars of the crowd. I go with David, Samantha, and the family to one of the matches, marvelling at the strength and power of the bikini-clad women as they do battle in the sand._

_However, despite the Olympic fever, the burden of being at a low point in government weighs down on all of us, especially David. It is more than just the challenge of a downturn in political fortune. He has planned his whole life to be Prime Minister and after two years, he is suddenly mindful of his choices. Missing Ivan. Discovering not for the last time that the grief he feels will never leave him. The mood from the flat descends. Ed and I try to keep morale up downstairs. It is tough-going. There are times when the challenges of No. 10 are more bound up in a battle of spirit rather than the battle of politics. I feel relieved to drive myself home at the end of each day, turning on Capital radio as an escape....It is well into August when we finally get to leave for our holidays. And by then, we are completely on our knees.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Cameron finds himself thoroughly swept up in the Olympics, the pageant, excitement and sense of occasion...On the first day of competitions, Cameron goes to The Mall to see the cyclists. The expectation, on the back of Bradley Wiggins's success in winning the Tour de France a few weeks before, is for British cyclists to triumph. When they don't, the press write stories about the **curse of Cameron."** But then British success starts taking off. He is in the velodrome on 2 August, along with the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and Prince Harry, to see Britain win gold in cycling. He rejoices in the success of Mo Farah, Jessica Ennis and especially Nicola Adams, the world's first Olympic female boxing champion. The beach volleyball is taking place on Horse Guards Parade just beyond the garden of Downing Street, and he is frustrated it isn't visible from the upstairs rooms of Number 10 because the large stands obscure it, though he manages to attend a game with Samantha and the children...After a torrid 2012 to date, Cameron's mood is lifted by the Olympics. He takes Samantha and the children to Majorca for a few days between both sets of games and is back in London on 29 August to attend the Paralympics. He then goes to Cornwall for a quick break.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Finally, the day of the opening (Olympics) ceremony came. Two years earlier, the great film-maker Danny Boyle, top director and producer Stephen Daldry and Seb Coe had come to Downing Street to present their creative vision. We couldn't outdo Beijing on budget, pyrotechnics or scale, but we could wow the world with something even more special: culture, charm and creativity. They showed me the mood boards, they played me videos, we even went to visit their studios. I loved it-this magical musical tour of Britain so ambitious it would make a West End production look like am dram. I said I thought there needed to be more national pride-more Churchill and Battle of Britain. And I immediately vetoed one of the more bonkers ideas-a section featuring Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness. They told me about one brilliant, top-secret sketch idea that might be a tall order. I told Her Majesty I really thought she should do it. She and James Bond are two of the best things about Britain, and bringing them together would be fantastic. It wasn't tacky, it wouldn't dumb down the monarchy, it would be really brilliant..._

_The Olympics opening ceremony was an occasion so daring it surprised everyone. The centre of the stadium was covered in grass, with children playing, actual livestock grazing and a choir singing "Jerusalem." Suddenly, the bucolic scene was swept away as great chimneystacks pushed up through the ground to the sound of a thousand drummers, heralding the arrival of the Industrial Revolution. Kenneth Branagh played Brunel and read from Shakespeare. Steelworkers forged giant Olympic rings. Parades and performers poured onto the stage: Sgt Pepper-era Beatles, Windrush immigrants, First World War Tommies, Suffragettes, Chelsea Pensioners, colliery bands. As the Red Arrows flew overhead and the London Symphony Orchestra blared out Elgar's "Nimrod", I thought it doesn't get madder or more British than this._

_Then there was an act devoted to the health service, featuring children, nurses and doctors from Great Ormond Street Hospital. The lights dimmed and the illuminated beds spelled out the initials "GOSH" then "NHS". It was particularly moving for Samantha and me, as we had spent so many days and nights in that extraordinary hospital with Ivan.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_And then it happened: a short film was played on the big screens, featuring Daniel Craig as James Bond. He wanders into Buckingham Palace, along a corridor, avoiding the corgis, and meets a person, her back to the camera, who you first think must be an actor playing the monarch. **Good evening, Mr Bond"** she-the actual Queen-says, before they depart the palace and head towards a helicopter. Suddenly there is an actual helicopter above the stadium, and two people looking remarkably Bond-and-Queen-like parachute in as the 007 theme tune plays. Moments later, the Queen and Prince Philip appear next to Sam and me in the VIP box. Absolutely brilliant._

_The ceremony then took us through the decades, via a celebration of British film and pop music. I wondered what the Queen was making of it all. Was she a fan of Led Zeppelin? Did she like the Eurythmics? The Happy Mondays? Dizzee Rascal, who came on to sing "Bonkers"? -For The Record, David Cameron_

_I wanted to be there in the stands too, cheering on Team GB. I thought it was my duty, although I confess it wasn't one that I performed reluctantly. But it didn't start well. First up, I watched the men's cycling road race on the Mall. Britain's Mark Cavendish was tipped for gold, but sadly he finished twenty-ninth. Then I went to the Aquatics Centre to see our gold hopes Tom Daley and Peter Waterfield in the synchronised diving-and they came fourth. As if to rub it in, Francois Hollande watched his team win a surprise gold in the pool. I watched the judo with Vladimir Putin (he knew the sport so well that he told me a move would be overruled before the referee even declared it so.) Russia's best competitor won gold in his weight division, ours lost in the final to the USA in hers. The press had a new narrative: this was the Curse of Cameron. If I was in the stands, Team GB bombed. It was superstitious nonsense, of course, but weirdly, on the Thursday we did find ourselves actually debating whether I should go to the velodrome for the cycling men's team sprint and risk fuelling the "curse" charge. I sat with Princes William and Harry and felt doubly nervous. I didn't need to worry. We flew out of our seats as Chris Hoy, Philip Hindes and Jason Kenny pedalled to victory. Then the gold started rolling in. On the Saturday-"Super Saturday", as it became known-I watched as Team GB won three gold medals within a single hour: Jessica Ennis in the heptathlon, Mo Farah in the 10,000 metres and Greg Rutherford in the long jump. I thought to myself: there is nowhere better on earth than this place, at this time. Whatever else happens in my life, this is a magic memory._

_I was living the Olympics day and night. With the beach volleyball being held in Horse Guards, which backs onto Downing Street, Sam and I could hear the whole thing from our bedroom. We would fall asleep each evening to the sounds of cheers, gasps and the steady thud of the sound system. **"Can you hear us, Prime Minister?"** came an announcement over the Tannoy one night. **"Yes, I bloody well can"** I said aloud. On the final day, I was invited to speak to all of our medal-winners in what was known as Team GB House. They were superstars. Third in the medals table, ahead of huge sporting powers like Russia, France, Germany. Compare that with 1996 in Atlanta, when we came thirty-sixth._

_The previous summer, images of London ablaze had beamed around the globe during the (2011) riots. This summer, the world had seen the city lit by the Olympic flame, and our home team-many the same age as the rioters, many from similar backgrounds-showed what hard work, patience and discipline could achieve, and what being British was really about. I wanted them to know what power they held, beyond their excellence in their own field. **Every school you visit, every playing field you go to, every school assembly you address...you can change children's lives"** I told them. I was given a Team GB kitbag as a memento. It became my travel holdall, and for the rest of my time as Prime Minister I jetted around the world with this piece of London 2012.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_In the 120-year history of the modern Olympics, ours can make a claim to being the best ever. But there is no doubt that our Paralympics were the best the world had ever seen. From the beginning, I wanted to make sure that the event, which took place two weeks after the Olympics ended, were treated with the same enthusiasm, credibility and respect as the other Games. I needn't have worried. Ticket sales broke records. In the nation's eyes, Sarah Storey, Jonnie Peacock and Ellie Simmonds were every bit as heroic as Mo, Jess and Greg. Indeed, my highlight of the entire summer was presenting the seventeen-year-old Ellie with her second gold medal. If anything, the Paralympics felt even more special than the Olympics. We were watching people who had probably been told from a very young age all the things they **couldn't** do showing exactly what they **could** do._

_Samantha and I felt that awe very personally, and we were particularly captivated by the wheelchair basketball. I think we both noticed how much changed that summer in attitudes towards disability. As I would later put it, when I used to wheel Ivan around in his wheelchair, I had always thought that some people saw the wheelchair, not the boy. Because of what happened in London in 2012, I think that today more people would see the boy and not the wheelchair. Perhaps that is the greatest legacy of all.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_It may appear strange that my favourite four weeks as prime minister came during such a difficult time for the government. But the Games weren't just an antidote to my own malaise. They seemed to be an antidote to so much that was wrong in our country. To the social breakdown we'd seen in the riots, proof that young people were a positive force. To the bleakness in the economy, proof that we had a brilliant brand the world wanted to buy into. To fears about integration and national identity, proof that we could all come together as one nation, and get behind the most diverse Team GB in history. Race by race, medal by medal, it felt as though Britain was stepping up onto the global podium. Perhaps most important of all, they showed that we, the UK, could still do the big, bold, transformational things. We could still wow the world. We had no shortage of ambition. One of the core ideas of my politics, that our best days are ahead of us and not behind us, found its emblem in the Olympics. That belief hasn't faded. Indeed, I don't think Brexit should alter it. Having a strong relationship with Europe outside the European Union doesn't diminish or damage the determination, pride, openness and warmth we displayed in that glorious summer of 2012. Indeed, it is through those things that we will flourish in the future.- For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_But there were many times, like when I was lying on her rug and listening to her now-we're-in-a-delightful-teen-movie-where-everyone-jumps-into-their-convertibles-without-opening-the-doors-first voice-as attentively as if it were lift music-that I thought she and I were so different that we were actually pretty similar. Amanda pretended to be engaged in things and I pretended I didn't care. And we were so good at pretending that we fooled everyone, including ourselves. -Quicksand, Malin Persson Giolito_

__

_"Marilyn smiled back, a fake smile, the same one she had given to her mother all those years. You lifted the corners of your mouth toward your ears. You kept your lips closed. It was amazing how no one could tell."- Everything I Never Told You, Celeste Ng_

_"Like they know anything about her. Or anyone does._

_(She thinks Effy does, sometimes-when...she's forgotten how much they hate each other. And Effy will say just the right thing, or smile just the right way, and Katie will think "Right, she gets it."_

_But that moment never lasts. It couldn't possibly. It's all a fucking lie." -Torn Down From Glory Daily, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_I'm sitting opposite you in the bar_

_waiting for you to uncross your boundaries_

_I want to rip off your logic_

_and make passionate sense to you._

_ -The Jerk, Jeffrey McDaniel _

* * *

"The people answering your phones are thorough" Patrick says, after a moment of silence.

Alex's laugh means it could be forty years ago, waiting for the Leavers' Ceremony in suits and ties, Alex lounged casually back in his chair, already the person the rest of them were trying to be.

"Clearly not thorough enough" he says, while Patrick grits his teeth. "You're the last person I expected to hear from."

"I imagine."

"Don't think you've come to the last few reunions." Alex laughs slightly. "Take it that's slightly off the table with your boss now."

Patrick's jaw tenses. "More that I've been busy."

"I'd hate to have seen you when you're lazy then."

"I didn't need to phone you at all."

"But you did." Alex's voice is lazy, but Patrick remembers that too well from school; how Alex could seem to be fast asleep in a tutorial, but a beak's cane rapping on his desk and he'd look up at them and recite the last few sentences of the lecture without even needing to open his eyes. "Which implies you're not keen to hang up."

"Maybe you shouldn't be, either."

Patrick can almost picture Alex arching an eyebrow on the other end of the phone. He waits.

After a moment, Alex's voice sloughs out, like a dog basking in the sun. "Go on. I'm listening."

"I-" Patrick hesitates. "It was more to ask-this would be better done face-to-face."

Alex makes an amused sound. "All that foreplay and no payoff?"

"Can we meet or not?"

"Careful, Patrick, I'll be starting to think your marriage has just gone down the drain."

Patrick clenches his jaw. "It's about your little brother."

There's a short silence. Then Alex's voice, more slowly this time. "If you've reached the point of begging your opponent's family to start spilling secrets, I'd say you've probably already lost."

"It's not his secrets." Patrick winces.

"Then I'd say I'm the last person you should be trusting with your boss's."

"I need to speak with you."

"We're speaking now."

"You know what I mean."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Goddamn it, Cameron." Patrick becomes aware he's speaking through gritted teeth. "It's not just _my boss_ we're talking about."

Alex is silent for several long moments. Patrick becomes aware he's curled his fist round the edge of his desk.

Then, "I could spare you an hour on Saturday."

Patrick's insides bristle at the words. But Alex's tone is clear enough. This is a take it or leave it.

So Patrick swallows, and takes it.

* * *

"Where's the Frank Lampard picture?"

George nearly has a heart attack.

"For Christ's sake." He leans back against the wall by the pigeon holes, which he still checks out of habit for personal notes, despite the fact all his career correspondence is now safely encased in a red box. "Don't you knock?"

Balls arches an eyebrow at him. "Did I need to? Or should I just slip a note in your locker next time?"

George glances back at his pigeon hole. "Make a habit of that?"

Balls clicks his teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Maddy's Frank Lampard card. She lost it. She said she told Liberty about it but couldn't remember if Liberty said she had it or not."

"Jesus, that was ages ago."

"I know." Balls leans back. "But Maddy's not moving on. She hasn't even entered one of the five stages of grief yet, never mind progressed out the other side."

"I'll forestall her grief and get it back to you."

"Better. At this rate, she won't be happy until there's an international rescue effort fixed on the thing, with live reports from George Alagiah."

"Yeah, well-" George tugs at his suit. "Alagiah would be less concerned if the real bloody Lampard went missing."

"Thought you were a Chelsea fan?"

"I am, why do you think I want him to go missing?"

Balls gives him the hint of a grin, eyes twinkling.

"How did operation Humaniser go, anyway?" George gives him a grin. "Added a third kitchen, fourth bathroom-"

"We're expecting a very good response."

"Because David Cameron lives in a shed."

"Dave lives in one of the most famous Grade II-listed buildings on the planet, though, so there's a slight excuse."

"Didn't he have a few renovations done to that Edwardian place of his?"

George glances at him. "They" he says lightly. "Were for Ivan."

Balls falls silent. George busies himself with his phone.

"Shit. Sorry."

"S'fine. It's not my-" George had been about to say _It's not my place_ , but what could have come out is _It's not my grief._

It is, of course.

"I think Liberty said Maddy left that card with Nancy, by the way" he says, rescuing Ed from having to say anything more.

"Oh, thank Christ. Could you get it off her for tomorrow, it might stop Maddy calling up bloody Crimewatch?"

George stops, taps his lip. "I was thinking."

"Did it hurt?"

George arches an eyebrow. "It's the Comic Relief reception tonight."

"So?"

"I have a better idea."

* * *

Nancy holds out her hand, looking down at the pound coin that's just been placed on her palm. She looks at the Garden Girl, who's sitting at the computer, eyeing the chocolate brownie Nancy's holding on a plate, carefully out of reach.

"We were thinking of £2" Nancy says, looking her straight in the eye. "The brownies took a while. I only just learnt to make them."

"Dad says Nancy's brownies are the USP" Elwen says, rattling the can of macaroons he'd helped with.

Between them, Florence stands with her face tilted up to the Garden Girl, a pair of red deely-poppers on her head, her hair fastened into two tiny pigtails. She smiles, blue eyes big and wide.

The Garden Girl raises her eyebrows. "£2? For a brownie?"

Nancy raises her own eyebrows. "A child dies of malaria every two minutes every day."

The Garden Girl looks back at her. "OK-"

"£5 can buy a malaria net to protect a baby" Elwen chimes in.

Nancy looks her straight in the eye. "If we sell twenty brownies, that's four malaria nets. Two babies to a bed, that's eight babies saved."

"Babies don't die" Florence burbles, staring up at the Garden Girl.

"Erm-OK-"

"Two brownies is nearly half the way to a malaria nets" Nancy says. "Two babies."

"One of those babies could be a genius" Elwen says helpfully. "They could grow up to cure cancer."

"Or invent a gene to stop terrorists."

"That would be good-"

"Two brownies." Nancy stares at her, eyes wide. She holds out her palm.

Two minutes later, she, Elwen and Flo are heading down the corridor, Flo still chewing one of the sausage sandwiches they got from the canteen before heading off on their morning charity collecting.

"How many did you get?" Nancy calls out, spotting Liberty up ahead.

"Hey." Liberty shakes the collecting box in front of her in answer. "A bit. You guys had Flo, though. She's the only one the deely-boppers work on."

Flo smiles up at her, chewing happily.

"They don't work on Luke" Nancy says, looking up at him, as Luke rips the things off, handing them to his little sister.

"I know" Liberty says, with a shrug. "But it was the only way to get him to wear them. We should get to take Flo, for the next go."

"No." Nancy puts her hand on Flo's shoulder. "Flo's ours'."

"Then we get to go together. You guys have an unfair advantage."

"Flo brings in proceeds" Luke points out, flicking her deely-poppers gently.

"Hey." Nancy pushes his hand away. "They're Flo's USP."

Flo smiles up at them all, chewing away.

* * *

"Don't fill up now-" Mum says, right before Bea dives in on the nachos like she hasn't seen food in a week.

"Hey-" Mum grabs her hand. "There's going to be a buffet. Don't fill up now."

"Seriously" Nancy confirms, nodding her head, and pulling her dressing gown tighter round her. "The food is awesome."

"And remember-" Mum's gathering Florence's food onto a plate for her, adding on a few grapes. "No one touches the T-shirts or onesies until they've finished eating."

"Does that include me?" Uncle George is leaning back in his chair, reaching for a piece of Brie. Mum slaps his hand away.

"I could easily get you a T-shirt, George." Liberty shudders.

Downing Street receptions vary. Sometimes, if it goes on late, they have to go to bed before it's finished, but mostly Mum and Dad let them stay down, especially if there's other kids there. When they were little, Auntie Emily came over once for one of the fashion receptions and they were all told to stay in the flat. After a few minutes of hasty whispering and crouching round the corner, Auntie Emily opened the front door and, with Perry leading the way, was promptly nearly bowled over by all five of them bursting out onto the landing and scattering for the state dining room, which only ended when Auntie Emily, having spent ten minutes crawling around the carpet and peering under the buffet tables, yanked off one of her high heels and announced in a hissed whisper that the last kid to appear was going to get hit with it.

Comic Relief, though, is always a good night to stay down, especially with everyone who turns up. Plus, they've been baking since they got in from school, so hopefully, they'll be able to sell some more. Nancy's table's managed to get ahead in the Comic Relief fundraising competition at school-she's been in the winning group for the last two years and she's not keen to give up the title in her last year at St Mary Abbots. Plus, David Walliams always reads the stories. Nancy's got doubles of each of his books with his signature in, so she can take the non-signed ones to school.

"And Daniel and Sam will be here at some point as well, and they've never been, so make sure you look after them." Mum rescues the guacamole at the last moment from Elwen's elbow, carefully dipping a carrot in for Flo.

"Is Ed Miliband coming?" Bea kicks Liberty under the table. Liberty kicks her back, and gets Will on the ankle. _"Ow-"_

"Yep, and at this rate, we're not going to be done eating by the time he arrives." Dad squeezes Nancy's shoulder, tugs at her ponytail. "How'd your competition go?"

"We're in the lead."

"Good."

"If we sell some cakes tonight, we're going to be first." Nancy dips her fairy cake in her guacamole.

"Nancy, that's absolutely disgusting."

Nancy blinks up at Mum. "Not really, it's a competition."

Mum's saved from replying, by Will pointing up at her T-shirt. "What's that?"

"Oscar Wilde" Nancy chips in.

"Yep, we've got a few of them-I think we've got a few kids' size T-shirts as well, so when you pick them out-"

"Do we get to keep them?"

Auntie Sarah smacks Bea's shoulder gently. "What kind of question is that?"

"A pretty good one, sometimes you don't." Mum ruffles Bea's hair. "And yeah, you do. Just remember-"

Elwen rolls his eyes. "Don't tell anyone at school where you got them-"

Nancy nudges Flo. "Remember? You can't tell anyone about the parties."

Flo, chewing a mouthful of carrot stick and fairy cake, gives Nancy a long stare and holds her finger over her lips, big blue eyes blinking angelically.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"The shirt's not going to give you away, Dave."

David glances at the Oscar Wilde quote, does a double-take. "No! Not the-the-"

Sam smiles at him.

David looks away, feels the heat rush to his cheeks. "I meant with Miliband. Him-you know-tonight-"

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I wasn't all right with it." Sam blinks at herself in the mirror. "Do you think mascara's OK if Nancy's going to be painting my face?"

Sam's all right with it. The thing David doesn't know is if Miliband's all right with it. Invitations issued through advisers don't give him the same chance to read between Miliband's lines.

"Sam."

Sam stops, mascara halfway to her eyelashes, then turns round to look at him. "Dave, do you really think now's-now's the right time to be asking that?"

David looks at her, and aches. "Yes."

Sam looks back at him for a moment, then turns back to the mirror. But she meets his eyes in the glass. "I suppose-it's easier for me to see it in front of me, than to have to wonder about it."

That hurts. But David doesn't look away from her.

"I'm sorry" he says, and the words hurt more.

Sam doesn't say anything.

David steps up behind her, presses his lips into her hair, breathing her in. It takes a moment, but Sam's hand moves up to cover his own.

"I've invited him here before" she says, without looking away from him. "I'm not going to stop inviting him. Unless you want me to."

In some ways, it'd be much easier to say yes.

But David doesn't. He just squeezes her hand, and turns to head for the door.

"Hey." Samantha turns round to smile at him over the chair. "How'd I look?"

David stares at her, the sight aching in his chest.

"Beautiful" he says, Samantha's smile softer than the word.

* * *

The second Ed catches sight of Cameron, his mouth goes dry.

"Daddy" Sam burbles a second later, and Ed realises, belatedly, that he's gripping his son's hand a little too tight.

"Th-sorry-" He manages to loosen his grip slightly-his other hand dangles free, Daniel having refused to hold it other than when Ed had gripped his wrist when they had to cross roads, and they'd had to be driven into Downing Street via the back entrance anyway. Either way, James' piece will be all over the news tonight and he and Justine hadn't been able to decide whether they wanted the kids to watch it or not. Ed had thought it might make them self-conscious, but Justine had thought it might help them improve for next time. Either way, Cameron's invitation had ended the issue.

Ed's been to plenty of Downing Street receptions before-even with Cameron in charge. This time involves a lot more red noses and giant red Afro wigs, but the premise should be similar.

Specifically, Cameron wearing a red nose should not leave Ed suddenly grasping the back of one of the couches in the state rooms for support.

Cameron looks across the room, and his eyes meet Ed's. Ed immediately makes several ill-formed plans to leap in front of a taxi the moment he gets outside.

Cameron's eyes widen slightly, and Ed watches as the colour rises slowly up his cheeks. It takes Ed a moment to realise he's blushing.

Cameron's blushing. Looking at him.

Ed's own face is suddenly so hot he wonders for a mad second if he's going to collapse into a puddle right here.

It's Cameron.

It's Cameron awkwardly fiddling with his red nose, and adjusting his suit and doing a tug of his tie that tugs in Ed's chest as he heads towards him, and oh God, this is not going to plan.

* * *

If there'd been a way he could have chosen to greet Miliband, it wouldn't have been like this.

"Like it?" is all he manages, pulling off the red nose with a grin, because if there's one thing he knows how to do, it's brazen something out in front of Miliband. "New outfit for PMQs, Miliband." And because he knows this, because this is how they are, he reaches out and fastens it onto Miliband's nose.

Miliband's breath stillsagainst his hand and David feels everything go absolutely still for a moment. His thumb brushes Miliband's top lip and his finger's touching his nose and their eyes meet.

"There you go" he manages, voice slightly softer, and Miliband's eyes widen, darken slightly.

"Th-thankth-"

David lets his hand drop, forces himself to look away from Miliband. "Right-um-" He crouches down. "Hi, boys-"

Sam raises his hand in a wave, while Daniel swings back and forth on Miliband's hand for a moment before catapulting himself into David's knee.

"Daniel-"

"Ohhh-" David manages to pick him up, Daniel's legs wrapping round him like a monkey. "Oh, looks like you need some of those-deely-boppers or whatever they're called-"

Miliband looks away, then back, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks for coming" David says, his voice quieter now.

Miliband's eyes soften, but he just gives a quick, tiny nod.

"See David Tennant anywhere?" David asks over Daniel's head.

"David Tennant'th here?"

"Yeah, we're getting ready for our annual find-something-polite-to-say-for-two-minutes" David tells him, leading them further into the room. "And then he'll-" He mouths at Miliband. "Fuck off and buy Nancy's cakes."

"Caketh?"

"Yeah, they've been baking. Some competition at school, who can raise the most, kind of-" David shrugs, carrying Daniel over one shoulder, making him giggle. ""You know, promote charity through appealing to innate selfishness."

"You'd know about that."

David winks at him over his shoulder.

"Where'th-um-where'th th-Sam?"

"Think she's just talking to the journalist-"

Miliband stops dead. "What?"

David shakes his head. "No, don't worry-she's only interviewing Sam, they're in one of the other rooms, she's not poking round the guests-"

"Cameron-"

"Don't worry." David sighs, turns to meet his gaze. "It's fine. I wouldn't have invited you, otherwise."

Miliband glances around, eyes darting back and forth. David sighs. "She's not MI5, Miliband. She works for _The Sun_ , she'll probably just want to write about Sam's shoes and whether or not any of the guests have had an abortion."

* * *

"Psst."

George stops dead, turns slowly, and looks over his shoulder, to see Ed crouched round the corner, peering slowly round the wall.

Maddy steps out from behind him. "Can I move yet?"

"For God's sake." George marches back to him and grips his sleeve. "It's not a bloody military-style siege-David Walliams is in there reading about a chimpanzee."

"An orangutan."

George glances at Maddy.

Maddy shrugs. "It's _The Queen's Orangutan."_ She juggles her backpack. "I've got it in here."

"OK. " George turns round. "And next on this edition of _Who Doesn't Give A F-"_

"Hang on." Balls grabs his arm. "Cameron can't see me."

George stares at him. "Right, right-so what are you suggesting I do, find a couch for you to hide behind somewhere?"

Balls tilts his head to the side.

George sighs. "No, Balls."

* * *

"Right-" Alastair leans back on the couch, tears open the Butterkist and chucks it onto the table. "Here we go-roll up for the first private screening of _The Normal Family-"_

"It's literally exactly the same time-" Grace leans forward, reaching for the Butterkist. "As every single other person in the country is watching it."

"Yeah, well, maybe that might be better." Alastair shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth, reaching over her. "Resist the urge to put a noose round my neck in advance-"

Fiona gives him a look over her reading glasses. "Yeah. That's hilarious."

Alastair returns the look. "You're talking to me now, then?"

Fiona just snorts and looks back at her phone. Alastair sinks back against the couch, chews the popcorn even more loudly, trying to drown out the silence, aware of Grace glancing between the two of them.

* * *

"I can't even watch-" Miriam leans her head on her hand, pressing her elbow into the arm of the sofa. Nick catches her other hand playfully, as Antonio nestles on the floor at his feet, reaching for one of the chicken wings Miriam's allowed them to bring into the living room, to highlight the rarity of the occasion.

"Try and watch" Nick tells her, gamely. "Miliband's never going to be Prime Minister anyway, it's the one time he gets to pretend he will be-"

Miriam snorts, tossing her long, dark hair back, snapping a bobble over one wrist. "It feels like flaying your skin off."

"What, his smile? The-" Nick gives her an attempt at Miliband's smile, whenever it's forced for the cameras.

"Exactly. Too many teeth."

"Is it, like-" Alberto reaches for a chicken wing, and nearly drops it, earning himself a nudge in the back from Miriam. "An interview, or is it a-one of those-"

"Things where they pretend the cameras aren't there" Miriam says, curling her legs up under her on the sofa.

"Yeah, but everyone _knows_ the cameras are there" Antonio points out, tipping his head back. "It just makes you look stupid."

Miriam chucks him under the chin, reaching over for a wing herself. "Exactly."

* * *

"Michael-" Sarah disloges the Caro biography that has been serving as a bolster for their sofa cushion, merrily undisturbed and quietly helpful, apparently for the last several weeks. "What the hell is this?"

Her husband takes a moment to glance up from his phone, eyes innocently wide behind his spectacles. "This what?"

Bea snorts, from the Downing Street flat several miles from where she's watching the living room through the iPad screen. Sarah taps the screen gently.

"This-" She holds up the book-no mean feat, as it's over a thousand pages long. "This thing.This monstrosity you've carried round your whole marriage."

Michael's face breaks into a happy smile as he catches sight of the book. "Oh, yes-"

"What the hell do you mean, _oh yes_ , it nearly took my leg off." Sarah drops the book, with some gratitude, back onto the cushions between them. "How the hell did it even end up down there?"

"I imagine-" says Michael, carefully inserting a bookmark between the pages of his latest volume. "Because I thought it might serve some use."

Sarah stares at him. "Under a cushion?"

Michael shrugs. "It raised it up, a bit."

Sarah stares at him, then at the book. "Is this the one you were reading when she was born?" she says, nodding at Bea on the iPad screen, their daughter having taken the initiative of FaceTiming her to complain about not having her phone."What?"

"Er-" Michael squints at the cover, forehead creasing. "No, I believe I read part of that volume while Bea was being born-"

"Yeah, and a whole other one."

"It was rather a long process."

 _"Process."_ Sarah winces, massaging her temples. "We've talked about _process."_

"Well, what other word is there?" Michael looks only mildly perturbed, peering over his glasses at the TV screen, currently showing a blurred frozen image of trees. "You were in labour, labour's a process."

Beatrice makes a vomiting noise from the iPad.

"Yeah, that's what I did when I saw you" Sarah tells her, grabbing for the control, which Michael's managed to dangle in mid-air as some other thought seizes him. "Here, let's just-watch the bloody thing-"

"See, _this_ is a process-"

"Shhh."

* * *

Ed glances around, pulling at his ring finger. "We can't do this here" he says, quickly, tightly, in one of the maze of corridors Cameron's led them into, in the snatched five minutes they have with the children occupied in the reception. "We can't talk about it here, we can't, we, we-"

"No." David lifts his hands. "No, no, that's-that's-not-OK, that's not why I invited you."

Ed blinks at him. "Th-sorry?"

Cameron shrugs, leans back against the wall, adjusts his tie, loosening it slightly. Watching him, the way his eyes flutter slightly as he sighs, Ed feels that confused, pleasant squeeze of everything inside him.

"I just-" Cameron sighs, opens his eyes, meeting Ed's gaze, with a sort of tired shrug, an _ah, fuck it._ "I just thought you'd like it."

Ed stares at him.

"I mean, the kids." Cameron arches an eyebrow at him. "I just thought-honestly, I just thought they'd like it."

Ed blinks. "Oh" he says, feeling oddly stupid, and irritated at Cameron for making him feel stupid, and at the same time, feeling something painfully fond swell in his throat and chest, and when he looks at Cameron, he almost has to look away.

Cameron's watching him, his eyes softer. "What is it?"

Ed opens his mouth, but he can't say anything, or he doesn't know what he might say, and so he steps forward and tentatively, giving Cameron time to pull away, leans up and presses his mouth to Cameron's once, very softly.

He stays there, their mouths touching, lips slightly parted, breathing each other in, Ed's heart beating so fast it hurts. Cameron's eyes are open, looking into his own.

Cameron's mouth presses itself very gently back into his, slower, as though testing the waters. Ed kisses him slowly, Cameron's lips warm and soft, coaxing a response from his own, and only when Cameron's eyes fall shut and his hand presses into the bottom of Ed's back, pulling him closer, does Ed let his own close, his mouth opening into Cameron's with the sensation of falling.

Cameron's tongue is warm and Ed doesn't even remember letting it part his lips, but Cameron's tongue's inside his mouth, and Ed should either get used to this or start finding it disgusting and then discover that kissing Cameron has served its' purpose entirely and they can stop doing it.

Neither of those things is happening, and Cameron's hand is cupping his cheek, deepening the kiss very slightly. One of Ed's hands has hold of Cameron's hair, fingers curling in very slightly, and it's a few moments before he realises he hasn't had to open his eyes and that his hand just travels there by itself, knowing the way.

Cameron sucks on his bottom lip very slightly. All the hairs on the back of Ed's neck seem to lift themselves in one breath and he hears a low sound murmur in his own throat, and he'd blush but then Cameron just takes his chin in his hands and tilts it back, gently, and presses his mouth underneath, a laugh shaking out against Ed's skin, and Ed hears himself gasp, his legs losing strength, one hand fastening into Cameron's suit, his heart beating _pleasepleasedon'tstopdon'tstopdostopIdon't-_

"We said-" Cameron's whisper is hot against his skin. "We weren't going to do this."

Ed blinks, lets his head fall back against the wall. Cameron stays still for a moment. Ed realises they're both breathing hard, Cameron's forehead digging into his cheek. Ed has the bizarre urge to stroke it, run his finger along the places Cameron's hairline recedes, say something soft and teasing to make Cameron look at him again.

Cameron looks up at him, and Ed doesn't, but Cameron's eyes are soft and his thumb touches Ed's cheek for a moment, and when he murmurs "We'd better head back", Ed barely hears him over the sound of his heart breaking through his ribs.

* * *

_"In eight weeks' time, Ed Miliband and his family could be walking into Downing Street-"_

Grace opens her mouth. Alastair holds up his hand. "No."

_"-their days of carefree strolls in the park a thing of the past."_

Grace snorts. Alastair throws a cushion at her. "Shut up."

"Seriously, _carefree strolls in the park?_ They've not just walked out of fucking Enid Blyton-"

* * *

"Jesus Christ!" Miriam nearly spills her wine-it's rescued by Nick at the last moment.

"Good God, _what?"_

"That's _terrifying-"_ Miriam points at the two looming faces of the Miliband boys on the screen. "Who puts a camera in children's faces like that-"

"It's not-"

Nick takes another look at the screen.

"OK, it is a _bit_ terrifying, but it-"

"It's weird" Antonio says flatly, biting into a chicken wing. "Look at it."

"It's like he's turned them into _Children Of The Corn."_

* * *

"Oh no." Sarah shakes her head, watching them walk through the park. "Oh, this is weird."

"You mean the part where they're pretending the cameras aren't there?" Michael glances at the screen over his book. "Or the part where they're all doing the same smile?"

Sarah glances at him. Michael imitates the smile.

"Stop that. It's terrifying."

* * *

_"Which is not easy, when you're always on the phone."_

"Why the fuck's he left _that in_?" Alastair nearly explodes off the couch. "That's not fucking _good,_ why the _fuck's_ he left that in?"

"Because it's not good?" Fiona suggests, with an arched eyebrow.

Alastair punches a cushion. "Whose kid says that? How would you _not know_ your kid was going to say that?"

"I don't know" Grace muses, glancing up from her book. "You used to call us Robin, John and Gordon, and think it would get us to shut up."

"That-" Alastair points at her. "Was one of the great tricks of Dad."

* * *

"Christ on a crucifx" Miriam says flatly, staring at the TV screen. "This is embarrassing."

"Well, embarrassing for him" Nick points out slowly. "And maybe for his kids."

"Is his wife going to speak?" Miriam pulls her hair over her face. "After that sexist not-just-a-dress speech she pulled out, don't tell me she's going to bloody-"

_"Just round the corner, Justine Miliband, a high-flying barrister, told me in her first major television interview how they cope as working parents with two young boys."_

Miriam lets her face fall into her hands. "Oh God."

* * *

_"They think he leads the Red Team-so, there's quite a lot of chats-I mean, you saw them-you saw them in the park--erm-there's quite a lot of chats about what the Red's Team's doing and who the Red Team's helping-erm-and things like that-"_

"Why's she pausing before every answer?" Sarah's sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion, fingers slowly sliding up over her eyes. "Why's she pausing before every answer-is she trying to look rehearsed or something, it's just weird-"

"It's not ingratiating" Michael agrees, putting it far more tactfully than Sarah would. "More-"

"More weird" Sarah says again, forcefully. "It just-makes you shiver."

* * *

"Mum, stay _still-"_ Nancy sticks out her tongue as she leans in to trace the whiskers carefully in black paint. "Or you're going to end up-looking like a panda-"

"Wouldn't that be round my eyes?" Mum waits until Nancy's leaned away, before she speaks, the second half of her Larry face nearly complete.

"Yeah, well-Panda Mouth, whatever-it's _your_ face that'll be messed up-" Nancy kneels on the chair, in one of the state dining rooms where Mum's doing her interview. She squints, tongue poking out again as she concentrates, trying to ignore the camera clicking behind her.

"Here, Nance-" Mum takes hold of her hand, gently bringing it to a stop. "Here, just-tilt your face away, so they don't get-"

"We won't show her face" says the photographer, who's crouched down, pointing a camera at them. "Just the back of her head-"

"Still-Nance, just keep-yeah, just look at me, keep your back turned-" Mum waits until the photographer's lowered the camera before she relinquishes Nancy's hand. "There we go-"

Nancy doesn't object. She knows that usually, the newspapers can't publish photos of them-they always just blur out their faces, which Nancy thinks makes them look stupid, but Mum says it's better they look stupid than have everyone know what they look like-but sometimes, like when Dad takes Florence to nursery and goes out the front door instead of the back, some people publish the photos anyway, because they're in front of Downing Street. She guesses being inside is pretty much the same.

"Your cat face looks quite good." She peers at Mum more closely, admiring her own handiwork before she moves to straighten up the whisker.

"As good as your butterfly?" Mum had painted Nancy's face first, after Flo's-Flo's currently walking around with pink butterfly wings on her cheeks. Nancy had gone for something brighter.

"I can't see my butterfly right now-"

"I thought that was a cat."

Nancy remembers to pull the brush back from Mum's face, before she turns round.

Maddy Cooper is standing behind her, with Mr Ed Balls and Uncle George behind her. Maddy's in a pale blue hoodie, her hair in a loose ponytail, her strange gemstone-like eyes fixed on Nancy. "Oh. _Now_ , I see it."

Nancy puts her hand to her cheek, only just remembering that her face is currently a mixture of tropical butterfly colours. "Hi."

Mr Ed Balls holds up his hands. "Sorry to interrupt. We were just-"

"Maddy just came for the reception" Uncle George says, slightly too quickly, his elbow brushing Mr Ed Balls' arm very slightly. "I said Ed could bring her up."

Nancy frowns, and notices that she isn't the only one-Maddy glances back at her father with a slight furrowing of her brow, before she glances back at Nancy. "Did you paint that?"

Nancy glances back at Mum's face, which is just about finished. "Yeah. Not the butterfly, but-" She points.

"Wow." Maddy moves forward, peering closer. Nancy watches her suspiciously, but it's genuine, unrehearsed, lacking the slight sarcasm that the girls in her class have sometimes started letting cling to the word, as though trying on a different voice. "That's really cool."

Nancy fiddles with her ponytail, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "Thanks."

"That's awesome." Maddy stares at Mum, eyes flickering between her and Nancy. "Cool."

Nancy's caught for what to say, but she's saved by Uncle George. "Oh, Nance, if you're finished painting, do you want to take Maddy through to the reception? David Walliams will be reading soon."

"Oh-yeah-" Nancy lays down the paintbrush carefully, wipes her hands on a tissue, while Mum gives Maddy a smile. "You're Maddy?"

Maddy nods, with a glance back at her dad. "Yeah."

"She tagged along tonight" Mr Ed Balls says, who seems to be glancing over everyone's shoulders, as Nancy heads over to the corner of the room to pick up her David Walliams books. "Heard there was a party. Invited herself."

Maddy sticks her tongue out at him, then glances at Nancy, who's trying to balance several books under her arm at once.

"Here-" Nancy glances up to find Maddy holding her rucksack open in front of her. "Put them in with mine-"

"Thanks." Nancy balances her books on one arm, reaching to hold the bag open, only for Maddy's hand to land over hers'. "Here, I'll do it-"

Nancy lowers her books in carefully, her eyes roaming over Maddy's face. Something about Maddy reminds her of something, though she's not sure what.

Maddy's eyes meet hers' uncertainly, so Nancy shakes her head slightly and gives Maddy's elbow a gentle tug, as she steers her to the doorway.

* * *

"Back in a minute!" Ed calls cheerily over his shoulder to Sam, then, almost before the door's closed behind them, fastens his hand into George's sleeve. "We've got to go."

"What?" George does a double-take. "What-why?"

"If Sam knows I'm here, she'll tell Cameron. If Cameron knows I'm here, he'll tell Miliband. If Cameron and Miliband know I'm here with you-we're-we're dead, we're the night-shift. Straight to video."

"So what-what are you suggesting, that you just-morph into a not-very-interesting _couch_ for half an hour, I'm-" George half-steers him round the corner, into one of the hallways leading away from the reception, towards the offices. "I'm not seeing this strategy, to be-"

"If Miliband knows I'm here, we're going to have to discuss it, and then it's going to be incredibly awkward." Ed shakes his head. "You know how awkward things are when they're-awkward."

"Brilliant, Holmes." George marches ahead of him, half -tugging Ed by the sleeve. "Look, there's no way you can leave now. Your daughter's sitting in a reception by David Walliams, if you just march in and drag her out, you're going to-half of the kids in that room probably have a bunch of traumatic _wounds_ you'll rip open-"

"Oh God." Ed leans his forehead on his hands. "Oh God, we can't leave."

"What is this "we" business?" George rolls his eyes as he turns back to him. "Look, Dave's going to talk to the kids a bit in there. We just wait until after Walliams has finished reading, then he'll head off somewhere else. All we have to do is keep out of the way."

"And here I haven't even eaten this evening."

"Don't panic, Orca, there's sandwiches."

* * *

"Make sure your book doesn't get sticky" Nancy warns, as they gather at the buffet table. "Last year, Flo nearly got her fingers all over Elwen's."

Maddy gathers several brownies on her paper plate. "Do you go every year?"

Nancy nods. "Yeah. Because Mum and Dad have to be down here anyway, so-" She shrugs, tugging her ponytail out of her T-shirt. "We come down."

Maddy glances around the room. "Wow." She grabs Nancy's arm. "Wait. That's David Tennant, right?"

Nancy glances over. "Yeah. He comes every year."

"Don't he and your dad hate each other?"

Nancy shrugs. "Yeah. Or he hates what Daddy does."

Maddy looks at her, leaning against the table. "Does that wind you up?"

Nancy glances up, chewing a Haribo sweet. "What?"

"What I said." Maddy's eyes find Nancy's, the strange greeny-grey of her eyes reminding Nancy of the sea at Polzeath. "About your dad."

The words are genuine, Maddy's eyes wide and clear with the question.

"Don't know. Just-"

"Nance-"

Nancy turns to find Bea and Liberty standing behind her. Liberty's eyes flicker in recognition as they move over Maddy. "Oh, hey, Maddy-"

Maddy raises her hand in a silent wave with an arched eyebrow. Bea eyes her almost suspiciously.

"This is Maddy" Nancy says, trying to remember if she and Bea ever talked at any of the parties.

Maddy tilts her head. "Hi."

Bea eyes her. "I'm Bea" she says, clearly testing the words. "Bea Gove."

Maddy blinks. "Michael Gove's your dad?"

Bea tilts her head, chin jutting out. "Yeah."

Maddy doesn't flinch, just looks at her. "OK" is all she says, but she and Bea don't look away from each other.

It's Liberty who breaks the silence. "Is your dad here?" she asks Maddy, biting into her cheese straw.

Maddy glances around. "He was. Then he went off somewhere with George."

Nancy glances around, tugs Maddy's wrist. "Hey. Let's go and say hello to David."

Maddy blinks. "I thought you said he hated your dad?"

"Well, he still comes." Nancy turns to look at her. "Even if he doesn't like Dad, he likes us." Her gaze meets Maddy's. "And _you're_ here, aren't you?"

Maddy looks back at her. "Yeah" she says, squashing her thumb into a cupcake, not looking away from Nancy once. "But I never said I hate your dad."

* * *

"No, no, no, no, no, no." Ed leaps back from the door as if he's had a cardiac arrest. "No, no, no, _no-"_

"What is-" David blinks as Ed grabs his arm, dragging him the other direction, away from the staircase that leads to the flat. "OK, for God's sake-where-where are we going-"

"I don't know."

"What the hell is it-"

"Balls."

David blinks. _"What?"_

"Balls, it'th Balls, it'th-he'th here-"

"All right, I don't know, I don't know what you're saying-are you on _bath salts?"_

 _"Balls."_ Ed nearly shoves him in the chest. "He's here."

"What? He's not here, I didn't bloody invite him!" David spins round. "Who the hell bloody invited _him?"_

"How would I fucking know?"

"Yeah, well, we're in real trouble now, we've only got enough food up there for two hundred."

Miliband rolls his eyes, his lips forming that familiar beestung pout. David takes pity on him, sighs, and tugs him the other way, back towards one of the quieter state rooms.

"Look" he murmurs, his other hand rubbing Miliband's elbow absent-mindedly as he tries to hurry him a little. "Let's just go and check with Sam if she invited him."

Ed cocks his head to the side very slightly. _"Th-Sam?"_

David shrugs. "He tried snogging her at one of the Christmas parties one year."

Ed's eyes bulge.

"Not really." David gives him a grin over his shoulder. "Gave her a peck. Did it with Miriam too."

 _"Nick'th_ Miriam?"

"And Sarah."

Ed's mouth puckers. "He never did it with Juthtine."

"Yeah, well-" David stops himself. "Come on, she's doing an interview-"

Ed stops dead. "There'th a journalitht here?"

David sighs. "Relax. She's only talkng to Sam, she's not allowed to report on any of the guests or-"

"No."

"Miliband."

"No." Ed's folded his arms across his chest, bottom lip jutting out, dark eyes glittering. David opens his mouth, then abruptly changes his mind.

"Fine." He shakes his head. "Fine. Fine. I'll go and ask her. Just wait here."

Miliband gives him a mutinous look. "I don't jutht do what you th-say."

"Oh, for God's sake, just stand here for two fucking minutes, would you?" David runs a hand through his hair, song beating under their feet, _I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough,_ thrumming through the air. "I've still got to get downstairs and sit through ten minutes of Doctor fucking Who moralising before Walliams reads to the kids."

He gives Ed's elbow a squeeze, and then realises, as they both look down slowly, that he's been rubbing his arm without noticing for the last few minutes.

David's gaze snaps back to Ed's, and he yanks his hand away as if he's been burnt. "Ah-I'll be-back" he manages, before he walks away as quickly as possible, without looking back, or letting himself wonder why he'd been happy to push Miliband against a wall and stick his tongue down his throat, but not let his hand linger on his elbow for two minutes.

* * *

"Can you hear me?" Nancy says to the little boy in the wheelchair, letting him grip her finger.

He makes a gurgling sound, big blue eyes moving away from her face.

"He can hear voices." His mother touches his head gently, stroking his hair. "Can't you, sweetheart?"

"But he can't hear words?" Maddy glances awkwardly at the little boy, then away.

"He's right there" Bea snaps at her, Liberty nudging her in the ribs.

Maddy glances at Nancy, eyes widening. "Sorry."

Nancy shakes her head. "It's OK. It's just better if you talk to him, so he can hear your voice." The little boy's hand waves at Maddy. Maddy glances at Nancy, looking a little uncertain, then waves back.

"Here-" Nancy squints, realises he's reaching out. "I think-do you want her hand?"

"Here, if he's-" The woman gently takes his hand, reaches for Maddy's. "Now, he might squeeze a little bit-he _is_ quite strong, so don't worry if you need to let go of him-"

Maddy nods, biting her lip. It's the first time Nancy's ever seen her look unsure of anything.

"It's OK" she says, and she puts her hand over Maddy's. "Here. He just wants to hold your hand-"

The little boy's fingers close around both of their hands at once. He makes a happy sound, then pulls his hand back, throwing both arms into the air. His mother bends over him, and Maddy pulls her arm back slowly, with a glance at Nancy, as though looking for reassurance that she's done the right thing.

"That was good" Nancy assures her, as the mum bends over the little boy, carefully wiping at his mouth. "Here, let his mum clean him-"

Maddy looks at her hand, then back at the little boy. "That was-" she says, once they're out of earshot. She looks down, tugging at a bobble around her wrist.

Nancy watches her. "Haven't you ever spoken to a kid in a wheelchair before?" She says it gently, watching Maddy the way she would a skittish horse.

Maddy shakes her head. "Not properly." She looks at Nancy. "You were good at it." She doesn't say the words with any surprise, just a little interest, her eyes flickering over Nancy's face.

Nancy shrugs. "Ivan was in a wheelchair. My brother."

Maddy blinks. "I thought you said they were Elwen and Florence?"

Nancy can't help but notice she remembered their names.

"Ivan's dead" she says, tugging Maddy behind her as they make their way through the reception, taking a seat on one of the sofas to wait for David Walliams to read.

Maddy blinks. "Seriously?"

Nancy nods.

Maddy's silent for a moment. "Wow" she says, but quietly, her forehead wrinkling in a frown as they walk. "That must...really suck."

For some reason, the words, simple and blunt, make Nancy feel better. Maddy doesn't say anything else, doesn't squeeze her hand like one of the kids at school might do, but her shoulder bumps Nancy's-slightly awkwardly, but it sends a strange warm feeling through her, as though Maddy's given her a hug in her own way.

* * *

David nearly falls through the door. "Did you see-"

Sam's head snaps round, eyes widening meaningfully.

David glances at the woman sitting opposite her, tape recorder in hand. "Oh-"

Alan reaches out and quietly flips off the tape recorder.

David stands still, mind working silently for a moment. "Did you see-the ball?"

Sam stares at him. "The ball?"

"The ball." David widens his eyes meaningfully.

The journalist glances at Sam. Sam arches an eyebrow at him.

David glances at the journalist, then tilts his head to the door.

"This had better be fantastically important" Sam says, the moment the door's closed behind them.

"Did you invite Balls?"

Sam blinks. "What?"

"Balls, Ed Balls, did you invite him?"

"No, I didn't-"

"Brilliant." David claps his hands together. "He's gate-crashed, that means I can kick him out. I've _always_ wanted to see Balls in handcuffs-"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "OK, don't say that too loudly."

"Let me have this moment."

"Yeah, well, wave goodbye to your moment, because he came in with George."

David stops dead. "What?"

"With George, he invited him." Sam shrugs. "Ask George if you want."

David stares at her. "With George? He came in with George?"

Sam shakes her head. "Do you think if you ask enough times, the answer's going to change?"

"No, I was hoping I'd wake up and find it was all a dream" David retorts. "And I was somewhere nicer, like the Gaza Strip."

"Yeah, well, that can always be arranged."

"Please do. Try and arrange for a gun to be pointed directly at my head while you're at it, I want a clean ending."

* * *

_"I think it's going to get worse-I think over the next couple of months, it's going to get really vicious-really personal-but, erm-I'm totally up for this fight-"_

"Oh God, no." Alastair shoves his face into a cushion. "What the _fuck_ is this?"

"She's trying" Grace says, with a reproachful look.

"She's very fucking trying. What the fuck's she doing, what's up with the eyes, she looks like she's looking into the fucking _sun-"_

_"I think it's about whether decencies and principle count for something in political life-"_

"Oh God, this is going to piss people off."

"What?" Fiona says, from the other sofa. "That it's a woman speaking?"

Alastair gives her a look that would have shrivelled Rasputin. "No, not that it's a _woman_ speaking. That it's a human speaking that seems to have learnt fucking human interaction from a court of fucking law." Off Fiona's look, he raises his hand. "Could be talking about him or her."

_"So if you ask me why I'm up for a fight-I'm fighting, not only for Ed, but for every single politician who tries to do the right thing, despite the personal attacks-"_

"Oh Jesus Christ, this is going to get right up people's arses." Alastair's speaking into a cushion. "Shut her up. Someone gag them. Gag them both, fucking now."

* * *

"I can't watch" Miriam announces, half-pulling her hair across her face. "I can't watch. The whole thing's unnatural."

"She's scary" Alberto comments from the floor, his nose wrinkling. "Her eyes look like they're trying to get out of the rest of her face."

Miriam taps his head. Alberto gives her an indignant look. "Not about how she looks. Just about how she-" He imitates the stare.

Nick leans his chin on his hands. "What the-why's he talking about being ugly?" he says, in bemusement, as they watch Miliband sitting in a chair that's too small for him in a school classroom. "Why the-what's he _doing_ , why the _hell_ would he bring that up?"

* * *

"I don't think admitting to only being beaten up in the mildest of manners-" Michael muses, squinting over his glasses. "Is quite the achivement Miliband thinks it is-"

"This is quite hard to watch." Sarah shakes her head. "It's like watching someone with a speech impediment try and stand up to the school bully."

Michael steeples his fingers under his chin. "No. It's like watching someone with a speech impediment try and stand up to the school bully and not realising the bully isn't even there."

There's a short silence, before Sarah says "You really should try and get over that."

"You've never faced the mirth of forty second-years as a school prefect before."

* * *

"Balls, you can't just keep begging people not to tell Dave you were here" George drawls, amusement curling his lip as they make their way through one of the state rooms holding the reception for the third time, dodging several running children, Balls' eyes darting about for the signs of any cameras, the pulse of the song playing providing a heartbeat.

"What do you suggest, then?" Balls snaps, having just peered round another corner to see if Cameron is indeed heading their way.

"For God's sake, just tell him you were here to pick up-you know, Maddy's bloody card-"

"He wouldn't believe that. Even _I_ don't believe that."

George raises an eyebrow. "I did. Well, I wanted to." Off Balls' look, he sighs. "Come on, you can't seriously have thought we were going to have a conversation about-" He motions with one hand. "Beatrice and Benedict, here, did you?"

Balls blinks. "Did you just utilise a deliberately more obscure Shakespeare reference, just to make it sound better?"

"No, it just makes sense. Romeo and Juliet are overused. Plus, they weren't actually involved in the machinations of their respective sides, so as an analogy for opposites attract-"

"Christ, you spend too much time with Michael."

"Well, what are you suggesting, that you spend the rest of the night sitting with a cushion on your head somewhere?" George stops, folding his arm. "Maddy's over there with the others, you can't drag her out now."

"What's she doing over there?"

"David Walliams is doing a reading."

"Good. That'll serve as a distraction. I'll have a sex change and move to Canada."

George glances at him. "Will we notice a difference?"

Balls rolls his eyes, turning round, then stops dead. "Oh no."

"What now?" George turns round, and feels his face pale. "Oh no."

David's staring back at them. Sam walks in behind him, tugging her T-shirt down, coming to a halt when she notices George and Ed standing stock still across the room, staring at them.

"You know the Canada trip?" George says to Ed, conversationally, as though they're sitting across a dinner table from one another, noting on some level that Depeche Mode is playing.

"You're not sitting next to me on the plane."

"I was thinking you'd be in the luggage hold, to be honest."

"Fuck off, you'd fit more easily."

At that exact moment, George becomes aware of someone standing behind him and already has a suspicion who he'll see.

"Oh Christ" he says, as his attempt at a friendly greeting, as he finds himself standing uncomfortably close to Ed Miliband.

Miliband's eyes flicker past him, and George knows without turning that they've just met David's across the room. Balls opens and closes his mouth silently.

When David Walliams strides into the centre of the room and bellows, voice at odds with the antique portraits and burgundy-wallpapered room, " _Storytimmmmmmme_ ", it's the only time in his life George would regard it as a relief.

* * *

_"At home in his kitchen, Mr Miliband told me how he-and she-ignore all the ridicule and poor opinion polls."_

Miriam drops her glass on her lap, leaving it to be only narrowly saved by Nick, Michael's eyebrows arch, Sarah nearly chokes on her wine, and in the Campbells' living room, all other dialogue is drowned out by Alastair's roar of "What in _fuck's name is that?"_

* * *

"It can't be the kitchen" Fiona says, shaking her head, with a slight pursing of her lips. "It can't be. Just-the size of that house, it just-it can't be."

Grace grimaces. "It is-kind of-bad."

Alastair has his head in his hands.

Fiona tilts her head. "I mean-it does look roughly the size of a jail cell, if you measure it-"

"For _FUCK'S_ sake-" Alastair's head rears up. "Jesus Christ, I mean it's a-it's a fucking _kitchen!_ Not a fucking- _padded cell_ for the mentally _deranged,_ are you _so fucking dense-"_

"I don't think it's padded" Grace points out. "They're tiles."

Alastair stares at her, then at the screen. Fiona nods. "Tiles."

"Jesus fuck- _fuck me-"_ Alastair's half-laughing, one hand seizing a handful of popcorn and chucking it against the wall.

_"Alastair-"_

"He looks like he lives in Soviet Russia, he looks like he lives in _fucking Soviet Russia_!" Alastair's eyes bulge as he turns back to the screen. "What the-it looks like _Rillington Place!_ It looks like-like you'd rip up the floor and find three bodies and some half-starved kid feasting on one of the fucking corpses! _What the fuck is it?!"_

* * *

"It's-OK, it's bad, it's-this is bad, the whole thing is-"

"What is that?" Miriam stares at the kitchen with the look of someone who hopes very much to wake and find that everything has been a bad dream.

Antonio's forehead is furrowed. "It looks like where they cook school dinners."

Nick shivers. "God, it's... _bare."_

Miriam is spluttering with laughter, hair half-trapped between her fingers as she presses them to her mouth. "There's nothing in there, there isn't even anything _in_ there-it looks like the-the 1980s would reject it for being too soulless-"

* * *

Sarah tilts her head to take in the kitchen from one angle. Then she turns to take it in from another.

"Do you think you can actually get PTSD from something like this?" she asks Michael casually.

"I doubt it. I think that's just-war veterans and people who get triggered when you use the terms _he_ or _she."_

Sarah shakes her head."That can't be the kitchen. I mean, it _can't_ be where they eat."

"It probably isn't" Michael points out. "It's Dartmouth Park. They'll have a whole floor underneath where the big, posh kitchen will be kept, and that'll be the utility room they've used for the interview. It'll be a Campbell job."

Sarah glances at him. "Wasn't Campbell meant to be good?"

Michael shrugs. "It's _Miliband._ Campbell's a spin doctor, he's not pouring the water of Lourdes."

* * *

"I see-" David Walliams is inspecting one of the pictures in his book, Elwen peering over his shoulder. "Hmm, it doesn't look too much like your daddy, does it?"

David nudges Ed next to him. "Brilliant. Nancy'll try to sue him, I know it."

Ed presses his lips firmly together and stares off into the middle distance.

"Miliband-"

"Why didn't you tell me he was here?" Ed's voice is a hiss.

"Oh, for-I didn't-" David glances about before lowering his voice to a whisper, almost in Miliband's ear. "I didn't fucking _know,_ OK?"

Ed huffs furiously. David rolls his eyes.

"It's me and Balls, for God's sake. What, you think I handed him an invitation over a candelit dinner?"

Ed lifts one shoulder in a shrug. David rolls his eyes. "You're being childish, Miliband."

Ed shrugs again.

"Miliband-"

"Should I shrug, as well?"

David counts to ten before he turns to see David Tennant standing behind them.

David nudges Ed. "Miliband. You've got a voter."

Ed does the awkward smile, and David winces. That grin as he shakes Tennant's hand. That's not Miliband's smile.

Not the one David saw in Oxfordshire, Miliband lying underneath him on the ground, shoulders shaking with giggles, dark eyes glittering.

"I was about to tell your friend-" Tennant's telling Ed conversationally, seemingly impervious to the awkwardness of the grin-David feels a rush of warmth, something he doesn't believe he's ever felt towards Tennant before. "We've missed our annual tradition this year."

David glances at him. "What, where you thank us for inviting you, say something nice about the charity, try and get a hug from my wife, and then you go back to hating us?"

Tennant considers, shoving his hands in his pockets and bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Yeah, that."

"Well, we've talked for about two minutes here, I was thinking we'd pretty much filled the quota for this year."

"You're not as pretty as Samantha, though."

David feels Miliband twitch very slightly next to him.

"Who's the-er-me and-" Tennant tilts his head in the direction of Walliams, who's sitting having his photo taken with Nancy and Elwen on either side of him, Florence in his lap. "We were wondering-what's going on with the-er-inflatable elephant and horse over there?"

David glances over to see.

He grins. "Oh, yeah, that's the elephant in the room, we don't talk about that."

Tennant tilts his head. "Fair enough."

Miliband gives David a strange look, forehead furrowed. David gives him an elbow. "Elephant in the room."

It takes a moment for Miliband to blink, but when he does, David feels an answering flutter in his chest.

"Oh." Miliband glances at David, then away again, pressing his lips together. It only makes David grin more.

"Hello, trouble-" Tennant's turned his attention to Nancy, who's made her way round the table, Balls' daughter now posing with Walliams.

"Hi." Nancy leans into David's side briefly, before sliding her books under his arm.

"Thanks for that, Nance."

Nancy shrugs. "You're stronger."

"Got them all signed?"

"Yeah, waiting for Maddy."

Tennant tilts his head again. "I'm pretty sure", he says, glancing down as Florence tugs at the bottom of his suit, one hand wrapped around Sam's. "That I've signed everything the three of you actually _own_ -hello-" This to Daniel, who's appeared at their side. "Who are you, then?"

"Th-Sam-" Miliband's lisp makes something curl pleasantly in David's chest. "And Daniel-"

Tennant crouches down to the three smaller ones. "Now, how old are you?"

Miliband glances back at David, who's watching him with a grin. Miliband immediately presses his lips together again, and he looks away.

David nudges him. When that doesn't get a response, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, Miliband, you'll have to talk to me at some stage."

Ed huffs. "I th-said I would after PMQs."

"So, what, you're just going to-ignore me for the entire evening?"

Miliband gives him a look that suggests he's seriously considering this possibility.

David, in the future, may well look back on what he does next as one of the stupider moments in his life, but at the time, he doesn't want to look too closely at that tugging sensation in his chest every time Miliband looks away from him or that teasing, goading urge to try and pull that grin back to his mouth. So he leans in and whispers in Ed's ear.

Miliband pulls back so quickly he nearly hits David in the chin. His face has surged a brilliant shade of red, before, just as rapidly, he pales. He stares at David, dark eyes glittering.

"Miliband-"

Miliband turns on his heels and walks away, his hands clenching at his sides.

David only very narrowly resists the temptation to slap his hand over his eyes. "Miliband, I-"

He stops, glances back at the children, who are all looking at him with various degrees of confusion.

Tennant, over their heads, raises an eyebrow. "Trialling a new election strategy?"

David glares at him. "You've had your two minutes."

* * *

"You didn't tell me before."

Nancy glances up at Maddy, from where she's choosing the face paints. "I didn't tell you what?"

The event's winding down now-most of the interesting people have gone home, and Mum will probably take Flo off to bed soon, once Mr Ed Miliband takes Daniel and Sam. Bea and Will went a while ago, and now that everyone's going, Liberty's gone upstairs to watch something on her iPad, leaving Nancy and Maddy alone, which was when Maddy had said "Do you remember that Frank Lampard card I showed you last time?"

It had taken Nancy a moment to remember their last conversation, sitting in the corridor, eating Liberty's crepes. "Oh, yeah-"

"Do you still have it, because I can't find it at home, and unless Joel's taken it-"

"Yeah, it's upstairs."

Maddy had looked at her, and Nancy had clarified. "In the flat."

A few minutes later, she'd been leaning up slightly on her tiptoes, keying in the code that they use instead of a key.

"Wow." Maddy had looked slightly taken aback, as they waited for the code to register. "Does George have one of them too?"

"Yeah" Nancy had said, as the front door had clicked open with a beep, and she'd pushed it open for Maddy, standing aside for her, as they both slid through into the hallway of the Number 11 flat. It had taken a moment for her to remember, flicking the lights on as they madee their way down the hallway, towards the stairs that lead to the upstairs of their flat, that Maddy's interest in this wasn't just friendly.

Even though Nancy didn't say anything, Maddy seemed to sense her realisation. Her shoulder almost brushed Nancy's as they half-ran up the stairs together, the zipper on Maddy's hoodie nearly catching on Nancy's Comic Relief T-shirt.

"What was it like?" she'd said bluntly, as they turned down the upstairs hallway. "Moving in here."

"I don't remember much." Nancy matched her tone, breezily disaffected as though the question wasn't one hovering over the next few months for both of them. "I was only six when we moved in here. We have to go in through the back entrance, most of the time, though."

"Do Luke and Liberty do that as well?"

"Yeah. It's so they can't get photos of us, if we go out through the front door. Like when Daddy has Cabinet meetings, and things, so everyone's there, taking pictures." Nancy pushed open her bedroom door. "This is my room."

Maddy had taken it in slowly, eyes moving from one feature to the next-the fairy lights placed strategically around the white gauze canopy over the top of her bed, Silver on her pillow, the sewing machine sitting on her desk, the myriad of sketchpads and colouring pens scattered across the chest of drawers, the poster from Swan Lake Mum got her for Christmas.

"Your room's really cool" Maddy told her, without any fanfare, and then,"What's that?"

She'd been pointing to the pub cartoon on the wall by Nancy's bed.

"Oh-" Nancy jabbed it with one finger. "That was from when Mum and Dad left me in the pub. Back when I was eight." She braced herself to tell the story again.

"Oh, yeah. Dad said something about it."

Nancy noted this with a faint feeling of disappointment.

"One of Dad's favourite cartoonists did this for his paper, so Dad got a copy for me." She'd been hunting around on the top of her chest of drawers, then remembered her schoolbag by the bottom of her walk-in wardrobe. She dived into it, pulling out her pencil case. "Here, I think this is-yeah-"

She handed Maddy the Frank Lampard card, in exactly the same condition she'd left it. Nancy, when she'd noticed she still had it, had tucked it in her pencil case to keep it flat, pressing it between the pages of a tiny flower-patterned notebook she has in there.

"Thanks." Maddy tucked it into the front pocket of her hoodie, with a proprietary pat. Nancy had sat down on her bed and after a moment, Maddy had taken a seat opposite her, pulling her own legs up into a cross-legged position, mirroring Nancy's. Maddy had glanced at one of Nancy's scrapbooks was lying open on her duvet.

"You can look." Nancy pushed it towards her. "Mum likes to keep them for us. It's stuff that happens here, and at special events and stuff."

"Like, because of your dad being Prime Minister?"

It didn't seem weird when Maddy said it. "Yeah. Mum and Dad say it's bound to end one day, so we should enjoy it while we can."

Maddy had turned the pages slowly, eyes lingering on a photo of Nancy and Elwen standing outside the big black door-Nancy remembers putting one of her tiaras on for Uncle Andrew Dad's friend, to take it, just after they moved in. "Hang on. This is me."

"Where?" Nancy had wriggled further down the bed, almost but not quite hooking her chin over Maddy's shoulder to peer at the pages. "There?"

She could see it was Maddy-albeit a younger Maddy, with chubbier cheeks. Nancy vaguely remembered the photograph being taken-it had been at the Olympic Park, she remembered, back in 2012. A photograph had been taken of all the MPs' children who'd been to the Games, standing up in the Royal Box overlooking the stadium. Nancy can see herself and Elwen somewhere in the middle-Florence had been down at the front, on Dad's knee, her mouth open in a baby-laugh. Beatrice and William were to one side of them, Liberty on Nancy's other side, with Luke standing behind her, hand resting on her shoulder. Maddy was a few people away from them, with an older boy and girl with their hands squeezing her shoulders.

"Are they your brother and sister?"

"Yeah. Ellie and Joel."

Nancy's eyes roamed over the picture. She knew most of the kids-everyone sees each other at the parties at the Houses Of Parliament that take place a few times a year, or at things like this. She found Mr Ed Miliband near the bottom, Daniel standing next to him, Sam as a baby sort of squashed into his lap. Nancy stared at the picture again, before letting her eyes stray back to Maddy's chubby-cheeked younger self.

"It was really high" Maddy had said, bringing her back to the present. "I remember looking over the edge."

"Yeah." Nancy remembered being dizzy with how high up they were when Dad carried her up to the very top of the stadium, holding her tight against his chest, her fingers wrapped around his wrist when they walked down the steps. David Beckham had been there, with Romeo on his shoulders, who'd given her one of his wristbands when they'd been watching them later on. Bea had been jealous for days. Nancy hadn't been that bothered, apart from the fact it was nice of him and it was quite a cool wristband.

"I fell asleep when the Opening Ceremony was going on" Maddy told her, rolling over onto her stomach, feet sticking out behind her-Nancy had, unconsciously, done the same. "I was on Dad's knee and he had to wake me up to see the NHS bit, with J.K. Rowling."

"I was awake for that bit. El fell asleep earlier on, but Gita woke him up for that bit."

"Mum and Dad wouldn't let us tell anyone at school we'd gone, though" Maddy said, tracing the photograph.

"Yeah, they say it's showing off."

Maddy had nodded, meeting Nancy's eyes. "Mum says people might tease us. They can't handle things that are different."

Nancy had nodded, surprised to hear her parents' own words in someone else's voice. But then, the only girls she can usually talk to-properly talk to, as in not have to explain how the whole thing feels first-about this are Bea and Liberty. Maddy's eyes had met hers' for a moment, and then they'd both looked back at the page, enjoying the strange new feeling that comes when you realise someone else knows exactly how something feels that your whole life you've never really thought has happened to anyone other than you.

It had been then that Maddy had said "Your butterfly's still there."

"Oh-" Nancy had almost forgotten it was there by that point. She'd painted a couple of stars and flowers and things on Daniel and Sam's cheeks when they'd asked, but that was just so they could look the same as Flo. "Yeah, the paint lasts really well."

Maddy's finger had brushed Nancy's cheek, barely like a breath. "It's pretty."

Nancy had looked back at her. "Do you want me to paint yours'?"

Maddy's eyes had brightened, but her nose had crinkled. "School tomorrow. Do yours' let you keep it on?"

Nancy had shrugged. "Sometimes." She'd considered, tilting her head to one side. "I could just do-like-a small butterfly, or something, behind your ear. Then you could wipe it off in the morning without it looking stupid."

Maddy had considered, head on one side. "Does it clean off?"

"Yeah. It's only face-paint." Nancy had watched Maddy, lying side by side on their elbows. "Do you want to?"

Maddy had, after a moment of deliberation, shrugged. "Sure."

Now, Maddy looks straight at her, not away like most people would, and says "About your brother."

"Oh." Nancy reaches for the palette again. They're back down in one of the state rooms now, but they're the only ones in there. "Yeah."

Maddy just sits quietly, but not in a way that makes Nancy feel like she's waiting for her to say something. Nancy concentrates on the small flower she's tracing underneath Maddy's ear, outlining the pink, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth.

"I was five when he died" she says, poking the brush back in the palette. "So he never moved here or anything. It was before Flo was even born."

Maddy doesn't say anything, but just watches her. Nancy leans in. "Here, close your eyes-"

Maddy does, obediently. Nancy leans in, watching her eyelashes brush her cheeks, as she concentrates on tracing the petals exactly.

"He had cerebral palsy" she says, reaching for another, thinner brush, and tilting Maddy's chin very slightly with her hand. "And Ohtahara Syndrome."

Maddy blinks, mouth opening. Nancy takes hold of her face and keeps it still.

"It's a type of epilepsy" she says, trying not to let the brush tickle Maddy's skin, as she outlines the stem. "Means he had seizures a lot. He was in hospital a lot of the time."

Maddy's quiet this time, even though technically she could talk now.

"He couldn't talk or walk" Nancy tells her. "That's why he was in a wheelchair."

"I think-" Maddy waits until Nancy pulls back the brush to speak. "I think I might have seen him when I was little."

"Yeah, Dad brought him to all the parties with us." Nancy tilts her head, examining Maddy's other cheek. "When he wasn't too sick. He was always sick at Christmas."

Off Maddy's look, "Because it was colder. He had pneumonia and things like that, because he didn't get exercise." Nancy remembers Dad explaining it to her when they were in hospital one Christmas.

They're both silent for a moment, digesting this. Nancy takes hold of Maddy's chin, gently turns her face to the other side, Maddy's hair tickling her own forehead as she leans in, tongue sticking out as she concentrates.

Maddy waits until she leans back again before she says "How old was he?"

Nancy doesn't need to ask when. "Six."

Maddy watches her quietly, but doesn't say anything. Nancy traces the flower carefully, making this one a sunflower. She daubs the yellow very carefully, in precise petals.

Maddy doesn't ask if she misses him. Instead, she waits until Nancy turns back to her paint palette and then says, her voice softer than usual, "Do you remember when he died?"

Nancy takes her time selecting the right shade of yellow-almost orange, for the petals of the sunflower. She's mixed some red and yellow together, and she stirs it a little more carefully, deciding if the combination's right.

She turns back to Maddy, moving closer so her hand brushes Maddy's cheek, almost like a breath, her own eyes so close to the sunflower she's painting she could fall into it. "Yeah" she says, her own eyes meeting Maddy's over the brush. "All of it."

Maddy doesn't say anything more. Instead, she just looks back at Nancy, eyes wide and unblinking, gaze steady and waiting.

Nancy looks back at her. Then slowly, she turns her attention back to the sunflower, with a strange feeling, as though Maddy's just squeezed her hand, as she takes in the brightness of the new colour on her skin, at what she managed to bring into being by mixing two different shades together.

* * *

_"Thus the Miliband pitch for the election-a decent man who wants change. But as he knows only too well, winning this election won't be a walk in the park...."_

"I can't look at it." Alastair shakes his head. "I can't look at it. Turn it off. Turn it off immediately. If I see it again, I'm going to climb out of this window."

"It wasn't that bad-"

"It was every inch that fucking bad." Alastair wheels round to stare at Grace. "Do you-do you know how bad that was? That was-that was fucking-that was like if you got him drinking champagne, right? And then you sprinkled some five pound notes over his head, and then you had a-a photo of his children being led into some underground prison cell with the nanny. And then you splashed a big fucking caption of VOTE FOR ME, I'M JUST LIKE YOU, over a photo of him taking a shit on a fucking homeless person. That's how fucking bad that is."

"Thanks for the visual illustration of your thought processes, Alastair-"

"I've got to get out." Alastair ignores Fiona, heading for the door, hands in the air. "I've got to-if I see an advert for Grand Designs or that fucking twat Phil Spencer tonight, I'm throwing a fucking axe through the TV."

* * *

"I can't look at it." Miriam has her hand over her mouth. "I can't actually look, I feel a bit sick."

Nick surreptitiously slides the plate out of her lap. Antonio and Alberto, on the floor, seem less nauseated by the whole horrifying spectacle.

"What were they thinking?"

"With the kitchen, the kids or the film?" Nick holds up a hand. "Actually, yes. Just yes."

Miriam shakes her head. "That was like watching the-the Hindenberg."

Nick considers. "I mean, if the Hindenberg was full of people you didn't like very much, and you got to see it up close, yeah."

Miriam glares at him.

"What, it was your simile."

* * *

"I've never felt happier for our kitchen" Sarah tells Michael earnestly, lying back on the couch.

Michael turns a page of his book. "I've never felt happier for Lynton."

"Do you think Justine's ever felt a human emotion in her life?"

Michael glances at her over his book. "I think she's just not particularly expressive."

"No." Sarah shakes her head. "She's expressive. Just in all the wrong ways. In the way you would be if you-if you rehearsed the whole bloody thing three times in advance. Like in a kid's school play where everyone shouts the lines because they think it makes them sound better."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Does Bea have a school play now she's in secondary school?"

"I told you no, you're safe." Sarah shakes her head. "That was like-like watching Mr Spock do Comic Relief."

Michael considers for a moment, then shrugs. "Technically not, because Mr Spock wouldn't see the need to feign emotion-"

"It was a comparison, Michael."

* * *

"So, we've just got one last question-"

"If it's about who else you saw here, there's probably going to be a press embargo on it by the time it goes to publishing" Sam remarks, gathering up the red noses on the table.

The other Sam-the reporter, who's remarked on the similarity three times-nods. "Understood" she says, in a way that tells Sam it's anything but understood. Then again, she has just posed for a photograph in a red nose.

"There have been a few-rumours-" The other Sam gives Sam the fake quotation marks that no one ever gives if they're not trying to make a point or trying to get something. "That you've told your husband that even if he wins the election-giving you another five years-"

Sam waits, not helping her out.

"That you might be more inclined to have him stand down halfway-perhaps _less_ than halfway through his second term-the date that's actually been given is 2017-" The other Sam raises an eyebrow. "Which would be-actually less than two years into his second term-and that the main reason for this is that you think that would have been long enough for your family, your children to be here, and that you want to move them back into their-their old home, into a more down-to-earth-more normal life." The other Sam tilts her head. "Can you tell us-is there any truth to that?"

Sam looks her straight in the eye. "No" she says. "I desperately want my husband to win the election. Obviously, it's up to the British people, but of course, I want him to win." She gathers up the red noses, carefully closing the lid on Nancy's face paints. "And if he does win-I know we'll have to make sacrifices, and that's just part of his job."

"So you wouldn't ask your husband to stand down early?"

Sam shakes her head, pushes her hair back behind her ears. "Well, I definitely haven't asked him that." She meets the other Sam's eyes, with a smile. "As far as I know, if he wins, we'll be here for another five years."

The other Sam looks at her. Sam smiles back.

"Mum-" She turns round as Elwen walks through the door, several books shoved under his arm, Florence toddling at his side, in her Comic Relief onesie. "Look, he signed it!"

Samantha breathes in the warm sweet scent of him, as his arms wrap around her waist, his head pressing into her side. She combs his fingers through the spikes of his hair, the artificial scent of the gel failing to cover the warm familiar sweetness of his Loreal shampoo, his baby head that she used to nuzzle as he lay on her chest. "Let's see-"

"Dad doesn't look like Dad" Elwen tells her, implausibly, until he lets the book fall open, pointing to a picture.

"Oh-" The other Sam is bending over, taking in the picture. Sam glances up at Dan, the photographer, who's readying his camera.

Alan, who's been sitting in the corner, watching the interview, places a hand on his arm, leaning in to say something quietly. After a moment, the camera lowers.

"It doesn't look much like him" the other Sam agrees, glancing at the picture in the middle of Walliams' book. Elwen shakes his head.

"Ed Miliband didn't think so, either" he tells Sam conversationally, missing the prickling of interest in the other Sam's eyes.

"Don't" Alan says, before she can reach for her recorder.

Sam tries to ignore this, turning her gaze back to Elwen. "Is he still here?"

Elwen shrugs, shaking his head. "Nope."

"Dad said he went home." Sam turns at the sound of Nancy's voice, who's wandered into the room. "He went home before Mr Ed Balls and Maddy did."

This time, Alan physically takes the tape recorder out of the other Sam's hands.

"We're not having any more photos" Sam says, hearing an edge creep into her own voice as Dan takes advantage of Alan's distraction to raise the camera again. "Not now. They'll be going to bed in a minute..."

Florence is winding around her legs, pigtails loosening as she squints suspiciously at the reporter.

"I thought-hasn't she already been photographed?" Dan glances at Nancy, who returns his gaze silently, looking unimpressed at the sight of the camera.

"Earlier" Sam says, tugging Nancy's wrist, automatically stepping slightly in front of her. "And it wasn't showing her face. That was it."

Alan glances up, then. "Yeah. They're not having the kids photographed again."

Dan's gaze drifts to Nancy, as though mourning the loss of a potential subject. Nancy glares back at him.

"That's a nice onesie" the other Sam says conversationally to Florence. Sam feels a rush of pride that Florence doesn't emerge from behind her legs. It can be easy to forget sometimes, when people are here because they want something.

"What's your favourite joke, Florence?" The other Sam doesn't crouch down so Florence peers up at her from behind Sam's legs, blue eyes wide, little face inscrutable.

"Balloons" she says, firmly, then turns and buries her face in Sam's jeans.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the other Sam, as Dan finally lowers his camera, looking disgruntled. "Guess that's your answer" she says, sliding a pair of Comic Relief glasses onto Elwen's nose, and pulling Nancy further into her side, hand cupping her face.

* * *

"That kitchen is on every _fucking page."_ Spencer nearly chucks the phone across the table.

"Well, it's not _me_ who told you to fucking film in it." Anna shoves it back across at him. "You're the ones who decided to go-fucking Delia Smith, 2.4 children-"

"I didn't think half of fucking Twitter would fucking spawn with Kirstie fucking Allsopp and fucking want to do a-fucking Grand Designs-"

"Jeremy Clarkson's fucking laughing at us" Stewart mutters, dropping his phone back onto the table."Jeremy fucking Clarkson is laughing at us."

"All right." Ayesha holds up her hands. "All right, just, just-look, Ed's going to be in for PMQs for a minute, we need to shut up-"

"It's not all bad" Tom points out. "James-see, James' blog gave Justine a good write-up-"

"The kitchen isn't even mentioned in the papers" Anna points out. "It's mainly on Twitter-"

"Yeah, and the headlines aren't better." Spencer grabs his phone again. "For God's sake- _"Now Ed Miliband wants to weaponise his wife-"_

"That's the _Telegraph-"_

"Yeah, and Quentin Letts has got a whole piece on it in the _Mail_ -oh, fucking _perfect,_ he's mentioned David-"

"Why the-everyone's gone on about her being called Justine Miliband, fucking _everyone-"_

"Look, we knew it would be-" Ayesha waves a hand. "Harder for us, than it would-"

"For Cameron" Tom finishes the sentence, the word hanging a little sadly in the air.

Spencer stares at his phone screen again, shakes his head. "They're still going on about the fucking _kitchen...."_

* * *

Ed glances at Miliband next to him. "So are we just going to avoid the fact we were at the same party last night or-"

Miliband, who's studying the notes in front of him intently, blushes furiously, fingers digging into the papers.

Ed frowns at him. "Miliband." He nudges him. "You know, not looking at me doesn't change the fact you were there."

Miliband's brow creases as he stares at the notes. Ed sighs, and looks across the Commons at Osborne, raising his shoulders in a shrug.

* * *

"I'd like it on record-" David says, into his papers, even as George leans back next to him. "That we are not on speaking terms."

"For God's sake, you said I could invite somebody."

"For God's sake, I said you could invite _somebody_ not Orca the fucking Baller."

"Nice."

David glances at him. "You're the one who came up with the name."

 _"I_ can use it." George grins. "And you're talking to me."

David throws up his hands. "Just isolate yourself. Just pretend you don't exist."

"OK." George folds his arms. "I'll just try and be as one with the bench."

"You do that."

Miliband's eyes flicker to his under his eyelashes for less than a second, and then away. David resists the urge to smack his head on the dispatch box and prays that Miliband can get through the questions without either of them remembering what happened the night before.

* * *

"Mr Th-Speaker-le-less than two months ago, the Prime Minister said in this House, he wanted a head-to-head debate between me and him-"

Ed has to look away as he says it.

It _would_ be today, that he'd have to say this and look at Cameron and feel that hot whisper against his neck, that curl of Cameron's lip, those words in his ear.

"He-he-he said it-he said-he said it was-he said it was _game on-"_

His eyes meet Cameron's across the dispatch box. Cameron looks right back at him, challenging, and it sends a rush through Ed. _Look at me._

"When did he lose his nerve?"

Cameron laughs slightly. He manages to laugh slightly.

"I've-I've said to him-if he wants a a debate-I've offered a _date-"_

Cameron doesn't look at him, but Ed sees the curl of his lip, knows Cameron knows he's watching, and his heart's thudding.

"The week starting the 23rd of March-" Cameron smirks even more as he leans over the dispatch box. "Why won't he say yes to it?"

Oh, fuck you, Ed thinks, childishly, and then again, because Cameron fucking _knows_ what he's doing, he knows what he's-

"Ed Miliband-"

"Mr Speaker, I'm gonna be _at_ the debates!" He's leaning over the dispatch box, and Cameron's looking back _at his fucking papers-_

"I'm gonna be _at_ the debates- _set_ by the broadcasters-"

Cameron's not looking at him on purpose, Ed knows, and he has a sudden mad urge to crawl across that dispatch box and fucking- _yank_ him up by the collar-

"On April the 2nd and 16th-but _I'm_ asking him-"

Oh God, he's going to have to say it.

"About the _two-way_ debate-"

There's no doubt about it, Cameron definitely smirks this time.

Ed could kill him. He could definitely kill him. He holds onto that, rather than what else he could do.

"Between me-between _him_ and me-"

Someone wolf-whistles.

It's less than a second. But for that less than a second, Ed tenses, neck prickling, breath caught in his chest, _OhGodohGodohGod, theyknowtheyknowtheyknow-_

He doesn't have to look at Cameron. But he does, and he knows, immediately, from the very slight stillness of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow, before he relaxes a little too hard, laughs with Osborne a little too loudly.

"Now, Mr Speaker, the original proposal for the two-way debate-" He forces himself into the words, too fast. Just keep looking at Cameron. Just keep looking at him.

"Didn't come from me-it didn't come from the broadcasters-"

_Fucking look at me, Cameron._

"It came from _him_ , Mr Speaker-"

Cameron's not looking at him. _Fucking look at me_ , and Ed's thoughts are going wild with it, leaving him painfully aware that he's barely looking to the rest of the House, barely looking at Bercow, because Cameron-

 _You fucking know I'm here_. The words seize tight in Ed's chest, almost knocking him off-balance.

"He said this- _"I've suggested we need a debate, with the two people who can actually be prime minister directly debate each other-""_

After last night, Cameron fucking knows he's here. He can fucking feel him.

"If it was a good proposal then, it was a good proposal now-why doesn't he just _name the day?"_

Cameron jerks very slightly at the last three words, as though warding off an irritating fly. Ed feels a sort of savage bite of pleasure in his chest as he sits down, an unruly sort of excitement wavering up through his body as Cameron gets to his feet.

"He said-" Cameron pauses very slightly, and a jolt goes through Ed before he hears the words.

_"Anytime, anyplace, anywhere-"_

Cameron grins.

_You fucking-_

"I've told him the 23rd of March-let's hold that debate-" Cameron's looking everywhere but at him now, but instead of triumph, Ed's teeth grind together, his fist clenching into his trousers.

"But I'll tell him what has changed-we've now got a situation-"

Don't do that thing with the finger, Ed thinks childishly.

"where it's _obvious_ Labour can't win without the _SNP!"_

Ed tries not to roll his eyes. "It's a tactic they're trying" James had explained, at one of their last polling presentations. "Probably won't lead to anything-most people weren't that bothered about the SNP, even when the referendum was going on last year."

"He says-" Cameron's turning to the rest of the Commons now, mouth wreathed in a laugh, his eyes skittering past Ed, when he knows what he fucking said last night, he knows-"He says we need the two leaders-we need the two leaders who can call the tune!"

It shouldn't work when Cameron says it.

"That's me-"

But it does.

"And _Alex Salmond-"_

He makes it work. He makes it fucking work.

"-so let's have the debate!" Cameron's already laughing as he sits back down, cheeks flushed and dimpled, completely unruffled, as if he's already forgotten what he said last night. As if he never even said it.

"Ed Miliband-"

"-Mr Speaker-Mr Speaker-"

Cameron raises an eyebrow at him. Ed experiences the bizarre urge to press his mouth to it and just fucking _force_ it back down-

"He says-he _says_ it is all about leadership-" His voice gets distracted, hiding in his throat, before he can yank himself back on course. "He says it is about-"

Oh God.

"-it-he says it is about him and me-"

Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly. Ed could kill him.

He feels Cameron's tongue teasing his again, and wills his knees not to give way.

_"Order-"_

Ed's too thankful for the word.

 _"Nobody-"_ Bercow's glaring at Gove, who grins back sunnily. "In the House Of Commons-the government Chief Whip shouldn't be smirking about it, it's _not_ a laughing matter-"

A chorus of _"Ooohs!"_ ripples out through the Chamber, reliable as ever.

 _"Nobody_ in the House- _Order!"_

The whoops haven't been whooped thoroughly enough yet, some decide. Ed's eyes are fixed on Cameron, narrowing slightly as he aims a grin and a wink at Gove. Like a kid knowing his friend's getting in trouble. Like a kid not caring.

 _"Nobody_ in the House Of Commons-" Bercow brings his order paper up and down in time with the words. "Should be shouted down-and I've got news for members-"

Another few _"Oohs!"_

"However long it takes, it is not goi-" Bercow shakes his head as the tide of chatter raises again. "It is _not_ going to happen. Members _will_ be heard-Ed Miliband!"

"Mr Speaker-" It's Cameron's smirk that he holds onto, trying to dredge every last drop of annoyance he can out of it, instead of that feeling that coils at the base of his stomach at the sight, something primal and biding, wanting to-

"These are pathetic, feeble excuses-"

Cameron doesn't even look up.

"Can we d-now take it-" Ed's leaning on the dispatch box, he realises only from the pain suddenly shooting up his elbow, counting the seconds Cameron doesn't look at him almost feverishly. "That there are no circumstances-"

This time, he forces himself not to rush the words.

"That he will _debate me-"_ He keeps his gaze on Cameron's forehead. _"Head-to-head-"_

Cameron doesn't look up, but his hand stills very slightly. "Between now and the General Election?"

* * *

David notices that twitch at the corner of Miliband's mouth as he sits down.

It's so obvious, David thinks, and then a second later, some stupid fondness curls happily in his chest at the sight.

"We've had four years of debates, and we've found out-"

He knows it's a cop-out. Of course he does. Lynton knows it's a cop-out. Everyone knows it's a cop-out. But that doesn't matter.

"He's got _no policies_ -he's got _no plan_ -he's got _no team-"_

"Debate can only go badly for you" Lynton had said succinctly. "There's no way you're doing a head-to-head with him. The only way Miliband could fail to exceed expectations is if he defecated on the stage."

"What an interesting tour of the workings of your brain."

"He's got _no clue_ of running the country-but the _truth,_ Mr Speaker, is this-"

"Isn't it going to look weak?" Gabby had argued. "If we don't do the debates."

Lynton had snorted. "I don't care if it makes him look like a mouse dressed up as Cynthia Lennon doing the hokey-cokey. He's not doing the debates, I don't care if he has to dress up as a small elderly gentleman and show up in a travel rug."

"Labour are now saying-" He slows his voice slightly, can feel them leaning in to catch the words. "They cannot win the election-"

He lifts the leaflet Michael handed him before they walked in. _"Here_ is the leaflet they've put out in Scotland-"

The Commons is easy sometimes. David's counting the _"Ahhhhs!"_ before they even happen, glancing across to the SNP benches, all trying not to look too pleased with themselves.

"Ah, I think the-the SNP might be interested in this-"

He can almost feel Miliband's gaze on his glasses as he slides them onto his nose.

 _"At the General Election, we need to stop the Tories being the largest party-_ "

A few more _"Oooohs-"_ are dancing around the sentence. David leans on the dispatch box, keeps his gaze away from Ed.

"They're not trying to _win_ -they're just trying to crawl through the gates of Downing Street on the coattails of the _SNP!"_

The last few words barely make it out before the benches are drowned in a wave of cheers.

"So what _he's_ gotta do-"

David has to look away the moment his eyes find Miliband's.

He just looks so angry.

And indignant.

And-

(With that furrow of his brow and those narowed, dark eyes, and those pursed lips, God, he looks-)

David wrenches his gaze away, pushes away the next words with more force.

"Is prove that he's not a _chicken_ -and rule that _out!"_

He deliberately doesn't look at Miliband as he sits down, glancing at George. "Good enough for Lynton?" he teases.

"Good enough to speak to me" George says, smugly.

David's opening his mouth to retort-he's sure it would have been a blistering retort, but sadly, they'll never know-but it's forgotten in the splutter of Miliband's voice-

"Yeah, there's only one pr-person-there's only one person-"

David has to look down at the squeeze in his chest at that little splutter. God, Miliband really doesn't get this.

"-preparing for defeat and it's _this Prime Minister!"_ Miliband straightens up, not even giving the words time to _land,_ for God's sake. " _Now-"_

Oh God, he sounds like a school prefect.

"He's not gonna-he's not gonna be able-he-he's not gonna be able to wriggle off this-"

David doesn't realise he's laughing until then. God, Miliband really is-really is just-

And it's exactly the same jolt he felt last night, that made him lean in and almost press his mouth to Miliband's ear and murmur-

"This is what he said-this is what he said-before the _last_ general election-he said this-"

Even the way he stares at the quote he's got written down, it's just-

_"We have the opportunity to debate at Prime Minister's Questions, but that is a very different matter to a proper television debate-"_

David has to look away from him. Just the sight of Miliband's finger jabbing about, at how certain he is of the points he wants to make-he has the weird desire to pick him up and put him in his pocket.

 _"During a general election campaign-"_ The finger again. "And he said _this-"_

David has to laugh then.

 _"When Parliament is not sitting-and where people will be most receptive to engaging in political discussion-"_ Miliband's glaring at him across the dispatch box. "Now, Mr Speaker-we know he lost to the Deputy Prime Minister _last time-"_

Nick cackles. If Miliband wasn't so delusional, he wouldn't be pissing Nick off so much, right before an election.

"Why doesn't he just cut out the feeble excuses and admit the _truth?"_ Miliband leans across the dispatch box and David prepares for him to butcher the line. "He's worried he might lose again?"

Yep, he butchered it.

David gets up more slowly, for the sole purpose of annoying Miliband further, drawing out a roll of the eyes or a disapproving click of his tongue. Miliband just-he just doesn't-

_"Prime Minister-"_

"Quite amazing-he wants to talk about the future of a _television programme_ -I want to talk about the future of the _country!"_

It's another cop-out. They all know it's another cop-out. But there's nothing Miliband can do about that.

"Four- _four questions-"_ He glances at Miliband with a grin, gets an infuriated shake of the head in return. _"Four_ questions, _three_ weeks to go-he can't talk about _jobs,_ because we're _growing_ jobs-"

He falls into the rhythm drilled into them by Lynton easily, the benches behind him following suit.

"He can't talk about _unemployment,_ because unemployment's _plummeting-"_

More cheers.

"He can't talk about _inflation_ because it's at a _record low-"_

That little roll of Miliband's eyes-God, Miliband _should know how this fucking works by now_ \- goads the next words.

"The truth is-he's _weak_ and _despicable_ and he wants to _crawl to power-"_ He spits out the last words. "In Alex Salmond's _pocket!"_

"Mr Th-Speaker-"

Miliband didn't even wait for Bercow to call him. David feels a savage stab of glee.

"If he's-if he's _so confident_ -if he's _so confident-"_

Miliband's terrible at trying to sound unruffled. David has to fight very hard not to grin.

"-why's he _chickening out of the debates with me?"_

Balls is nodding, which is pretty much the most action David has seen out of Balls all morning, he realises. He's tempted to glance at George, but Miliband's still going.

"Everyone- _everyone_ can see it-"

There's another wolf-whistle or whoop from somewhere behind him. David knows it's ridiculous, but he feels that shudder again, that frantic, caught look of _Oh God, oh God-_

"And Mr Speaker-" Miliband turns away from him, but not fast enough-David sees that twitch of his mouth, the stilling of his shoulders, knows he heard exactly the same thing. "I'll tell you why this matters-I'll tell you why this matters-"

He's so _serious._

"Because it goes to his _character-"_ Miliband's affecting a schoolteacherly expression. It gives David the weird urge to laugh and hide his face in his hands at the same time.

"It goes to his character, because the public will see through his _feeble_ excuses-"

Miliband's words are almost drowned out by the well of noise behind David now.

"Instead of these ridiculous tactics-"

The way Miliband drags out that _r-_

"-why doesn't he show a bit more backbone and turn up for the head-to-head debate with me-" Miliband leans forward slightly. His arms are waving-David knows he wants it to look authentic, but it just looks like his suit's a size too small.

"Anytime, anywhere, anyplace?"

He got that the wrong way round, David can't help but note with a grin.

_"Prime Minister-"_

"I will tell him what goes to character-"

Hesitates very slightly. Just enough to get Labour MPs wondering. Just enough to get them remembering his brother. Birth certificate. Married for the job-

"Someone who is prepared to _craw_ l into Downing Street-in alliance with people who want to break up the future of our country!"

The cheers are louder now, David's voice grating in his throat.

"What a despicable and _weak_ thing to do!"

 _"Weak"_ Lynton had said the other day, half-clapping his hands in front of David's face. "Weak. Weak. It's the one thing Miliband can't get away from. Keeps showing up in the polling groups. _Weak._ Hammer it home."

"Risking our _defences_ -risking our _country_ -risking our _United Kingdom-"_

And letting them remember, on the benches behind Miliband, just what he did last time to get into power.

"If he had an ounce of courage, he'd _rule it out!"_

"Most people don't want the UK to break up" Lynton pointed out. "Don't give a damn about the financial implications, it just doesn't sound right to them. And Miliband can't deny it. It would take away any validity from him if he ended up in a hung parliament position. So he's going to try and wriggle out of it. But they already see him as weak, so you've got a golden line right there. Every time he tries to get you on a hook, make him wriggle on it instead."

"There's onl-there's only one person-" Miliband's finger jabs at him, and David can't help but grin at that clenching of Miliband's jaw, the narrowing of his eyes, because Miliband can never hide when David's under his skin-

"There's only one person who's a risk to the integrity of the United Kingdom-" Miliband's voice sounds like it's about to give out. Or he's about to lie across the dispatch box. Or both.

"And it's this _useless_ Prime Minister-"

Useless, that's a new one.

_"Order-"_

Miliband practically drops back into his seat. David has to fight back a snigger.

 _"Order-"_ Bercow's doing the glare. "That question _will_ be heard-"

"More's the pity" someone mutters.

"The noise calculatedly being made by some members-on _both_ sides of the House-" Bercow's head snaps round to the Labour benches as some voices rise in protest. _"_ Is- _order-_ is a _disgrace to the House Of Commons-"_

"Ah, the Eighth Dwarf" George mutters next to him. "Snidey."

David muffles his laughter by shoving the paper over his mouth.

"The Right Honourable Gentleman will be _heard-"_ Bercow points at David. David wonders just how much it's killing him to have to say this.

"And the _Prime Minister_ will be heard- _that_ is the end of the matter-Ed Miliband-"

"Mr Speaker, there's only one person who's a risk to the integrity of our country-"

Oh God, he hasn't delivered it any better.

"And that is this Prime Minister-" Miliband almost garbles the words out. "And on the head-to-head debate, we've _learnt_ something about him, Mr Speaker-"

Oh God, sound less like a kid who's doing a presentation with some interesting facts he's learnt about rocks.

"Because like _all_ bullies-"

George collapses into something that must be remarkably close to hysterics. "Jesus save me."

"When the heat's really on-he _runs_ for cover!"

Miliband launches back and promptly nearly trips over his own feet.

David has to tilt his head away very carefully and firmly and take a long breath so as not to burst out laughing.

"He's been offered a debate and he _won't take it-"_ He knows the smoothness of his voice will be grating under Miliband's skin. Pictures it itching away.

"Anytime, anyplace, anywhere-but he _won't_ take it-" He could recite the ABC backwards right now, and as long as he didn't trip, it would still be better.

"The truth is, they've got nothing to say on _policy_ , nothing to say on the _economy-"_ He can barely be bothered to count them out. "Their only way into Downing Street is on Alex Salmond's _coattails-"_

The cheers rise a bit at that.

"It is an allia-it is an _alliance-"_ David lets his foot nudge George's slightly. "Between the people who want to _bankrupt_ Britain and the people who want to _break up_ Britain-"

He presses his shoe to George's, thanking him for the line, gets a grin out of the corner of his eye.

"And the British people will _never have it."_ With that, he sinks back into his seat, letting his arm lean against George's for a moment, and deliberately not looking in Miliband's direction at all, and trying not to look at the sudden, unpleasant fact wanting to stare up into his face that Miliband hasn't spoken to him once since last night.

* * *

Burt is speaking when Ed feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He doesn't mean to look at Cameron, but when he looks up and their gazes meet, he knows, with a horrible skipping of his heart-just _knows_ -who it is.

He stares back at the papers, and pretends, for a moment, that Cameron might think he means it.

* * *

David's phone has buzzed a total of four times and he hasn't looked at it once.

Instead, he waits, sitting on the bench, knowing full well that every one of those messages will be from Miliband.

And that if he replies, that'll be the excuse Miliband needs.

So he waits.

Ten minutes go by, which is less than David expected, before the door opens.

"We need a different place to meet" David tries to joke, getting to his feet, as Miliband lets the door of the cloakroom close behind him.

Miliband doesn't move-just stands, back flat against the door, lips pressed together, dark eyes glittering, mutinous.

"All right." David raises his hands. "All right. It-it was a joke-"

Miliband looks away.

"I wanted to-I thought it would make you relax."

 _"Relax?"_ Miliband practically spits the word out. "You thought that would make me fucking _relax?"_

David closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You-what?"

"I'm sorry."

David opens his eyes, looks straight at him. "It was a joke."

Miliband blinks, as though David's slapped him and he hasn't quite worked it out yet.

"I'm sorry" David says, because tasting the words in his mouth is better than feeling his heart beat faster and faster, with the frantic little prayer of _Please don't say what I said-don't make me say it again, Jesus, I'll-_

Miliband stares at him for another moment, then pushes himself off the door abruptly. He's pacing back and forth, arms folded across his chest, head whipping round to look at him.

"What do you want?" The words are practically bitten out.

David raises an eyebrow. "A different place to meet, for one thing."

Miliband snorts. "And why would we need that?"

David gives him the grin. "Are you saying you're breaking up with me?"

"Fuck off."

"No, no, no-" David puts a hand on his arm as Miliband tries to push past him. "Come on, Ed, it was a joke, please-"

It's a gamble, but it makes Miliband stop.

"Look, you know it was a joke."

Miliband looks away.

"I thought-it'd help you-you know-relax."

Miliband snorts.

"I-" David has to force the words out. "I misjudged it."

A long moment passes, before Miliband's eyes meet his own. "Can you say that again?"

David gives him a grin. "Why, do you like my voice?"

Miliband rolls his eyes, but he doesn't pull away.

"Look, I just thought it might make you feel-a bit easier about Saturday-"

 _"Easier?"_ Miliband snorts. "You-you said that you-"

His face turns a slow crimson. David looks away, his own cheeks warming.

"Well-yeah-I just-" He nearly fidgets. "I didn't think you'd-when I invited you. I didn't think you'd say yes."

Miliband glances at him for less than a moment, but the colour in his cheeks deepens as he looks away and he says, the words so small, they almost get lost in his throat, "Neither did I."

David coughs, looks away. "Anyway-"

"In cathe you hadn't noticed, we're a bit pushed for th-space" Miliband says, a little too quickly, folding his arms across his chest.

"We can't just keep having meetings in someone's office, people will think you're fond of me."

Miliband swells indignantly, exactly as David had known he would. "As _if."_

David grins at him. Miliband scowls back. "What do you want?"

David tugs his watch. "Check when you next wanted to meet up."

Ed squints at him. "I thought-it was more of a-"

"What?"

"We weren't supposed to _plan it."_ Miliband almost spits the words out, looking frustrated. "It was just meant to be a-a-"

"Rip each other's clothes off when we're angry kind of thing?"

Miliband blanches. "Do you want to th-stop or something?"

David takes a deep breath, reining himself in. "No. Look, no. Just-I just-wanted to know."

Miliband's mouth works furiously, as though he's fighting with the words. David forces himself to wait patiently.

"Justine's out tonight" Miliband manages, eventually. "Some-Mumsnet party thing."

"Sounds avoidable."

A corner of Miliband's mouth twitches slightly.

"Come on, you know everyone hates Mumsnet. Even bloody Mumsnet hates Mumsnet."

Miliband looks away, mouth twitching.

"We can't do it at mine again" he says, too quickly, folding his arms across his chest. "It's always at mine."

David shrugs. "Is there a time-limit?"

Ed rolls his eyes. David holds up his hands. "Look, it needs to be somewhere safe. I can't tell half the security detail I'm going to be standing around on a street corner."

Ed sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, and pinching the bridge of his nose. "How about here?"

David glances around. "Do you just....really like this cloakroom?"

Ed swells indignantly. "I meant in _here_. The-you know, the Palace. One of our offices."

David considers this. "True. As long as you don't meet one of your lot asleep in the corridor in one of their little camp-beds."

Ed snorts. "Have you ever even th-slept in a campbed?"

David raises an eyebrow. "Have you?"

Ed folds his arms tighter and scowls.

"Then again, I thought you might not be able to fit it into the kitchen."

"Oh, would you shut up." Miliband sinks down onto the bench. "You've been in my fucking kitchen."

"I was being polite." David raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, when you moved in, didn't you think it was a bit-"

Miliband stares at him. "What?"

David shrugs. "I'm wracking my brains for a compliment here."

Miliband huffs. "We didn't have children when we moved in."

"You had Daniel."

"He was a _baby."_

"Still, didn't you think he'd grow?"

Ed scowls. "We don't need a bigger kitchen. It's not like we're in there all the time."

"Maybe that's the problem."

"What'th that supposed to mean?"

"Well-" David shrugs. "You know. It looks a bit-unfriendly."

"Unfriendly?"

"Well-" David struggles. "I don't know. Something about the-it's just-" He can't find the words. Something about Miliband's house-not just the kitchen, the _house_ -feels oddly like looking at a picture with the colour drained out, or a film on silent. It just looks a little-bare.

"It didn't translate well on camera" is all he says, because explaining it to Miliband would just take too long and be too complicated when David can't even really explain it to himself. Neither could most other people. But they'd just _know,_ when they looked at Miliband or his family or their house.

"Look-" He holds up his hands. "Here's good. We can use here. Here's just-one of our offices-"

Ed shrugs. "It'll have to be yourth. Otherwise we'd have to go to Norman Shaw th-South."

David tries not to grin at the lisp, his heartbeat quickening.

"I can do that" he says, taking a deep breath. "I can be-I'll let you know what time."

"I'll let you know when Juthtine leaves" Ed says suddenly. "It'll have to be th-soon after that."

David shrugs. "OK."

"Well." Miliband takes a cautious step towards him, then another. David stands aside, only for Miliband to hover there, glancing up at him, then away.

David grins. "I thought you said you didn't want a kiss?"

Miliband scowls and stalks past him. David grins, then, as Miliband reaches the door, bends and presses his mouth to his cheek.

They both jump. Ed gives him that look-the startled, big-eyed look that he sometimes gives him across the dispatch box, or when David's arm brushes his own. The one that makes something jump in David's chest.

He looks away, a little wrong-footed, then back, not even having the heart to make any remarks about the colour creeping up Ed's cheeks. "See you later" he manages, his voice slightly lower than usual, and waits until Ed nods quickly and slips out of the door to lean back against the wall, biting his lip and furiously telling his heartbeat to calm down.

* * *

"It's a cyclical budget" Danny says, for the third time. "The public are already pissed off enough with borrowing, they'll massacre us even more if they think we look like we're leaning towards Labour."

Nick leans his head on his hand. "And our voters are already savaging us for going over too much to the bloody Tories, Danny."

"We need to put some more water between us and the Tories" David says bluntly, glancing between them, with the weird feeling that he's been brought in as some sort of buffer. "If we go into the election looking exactly like the Tories with a bit more welfare, we're going to be wiped out."

Nick's leg twitches. David has the strong suspicion that if there'd been a table there, he'd have got a kick.

Danny, to his credit, aside from a slight shrug of the shoulder, doesn't acknowledge this. "But our best possibility of being in government is being back in coalition with the Tories-there's no way Miliband's a Prime Minister. He just isn't."

Nick sighs. "Everyone knows Miliband's not a Prime Minister. Even Miliband's party know he's not a Prime Minister."

"Look, it's unlikely we'll-fuck it, it's _impossibl_ e we'll be in government on our own-" David leans back. "And yes, the most likely option is we'll be in with the Tories, but if we end up-" He gestures, biting his lip. "Being wiped out, do we really want any of our legacy in government to just be-hanging onto the bloody Tories' coat-tails and not-"

He bites his lip, cutting himself off. "Look, this is one of our last-chances to make our mark on the coalition" he says, glancing at Nick, then away. "And we just-we can't just hand yet another thing to the Tories."

Nick flinches slightly. David looks away, glances back down at his papers. "We've handed them enough already" he says, determinedly keeping his gaze away from Nick, counting the days left until Osborne's last Budget, fingers drumming on the arm of the sofa.

* * *

The House Of Commons at night is eerie, cavernous walls looming over Ed as he makes his way to Cameron's office, moonlight slanting its' way through the windows. He knows the way like the back of his hand, which, he reflects a moment later, might not be a good thing.

Cameron's door is open, making Ed stop, slightly wrong-footed. It makes sense-there's likely nobody here apart from them and the night security that Ed's just walked past. But seeing the rectangle of yellow light carving itself into the hallway still feels weird, like they're inviting someone to walk in on them.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut at the thought, then taps on the door.

"Yeah?"

Ed pushes the door open slowly, nerves knotting in his stomach and making him scowl.

Cameron's sitting at his desk, which nearly makes Ed roll his eyes on principle-at the way Cameron's just _lounging_ there in his chair, with his suit thrown casually over the back, one of his buttons undone, and his hair dishevelled, one foot practically resting lazily on the table-

He looks good, and Ed scowls harder.

"Going to close the door, Miliband?" Cameron gives him a grin, head tilted to one side, leaning back in his chair.

Ed's tempted to refuse on principle, but then considers Cameron's grin and closes the door behind him.

"Th-so-" He coughs, suddenly glad he's carried his own suit over his arm. "You-you th-said you wanted to th-see me?"

"Yeah." Cameron gives him the crooked grin, swings himself out of his seat easily. "Want to sit on the sofa?"

Ed eyes him suspiciously but slowly takes a seat. He measures the distance between one cushion and the next, tries to look away, untroubled, as Cameron unfolds himself next to him, one arm stretching across the back of the sofa. Ed tells himself not to pull away, tries not to nestle his head too close.

"So-" Cameron gives him an arched eyebrow.

Ed tries to return it. "Th-so?"

David gives him a grin. "How long can you stay?"

Ed tries to sound unaffected by the grin. By the way Cameron's leg is inching along the sofa, until it's touching his own.

"I-" He's breathless, trying not to look at Cameron's mouth. "I juthst-I've got a couple of hours."

David grins suddenly. "So we could chat for a bit. Unless you're desperate to kiss me?"

Ed snorts. "You wish."

David raises an eyebrow, but doesn't answer. Ed blushes and scowls harder.

"What did you do?" he asks, for need of something to say, to distract himself from the grin.

"Not much-" Cameron stretches like a cat, leaning back. Something aches in Ed's body, looking at him, his heartbeat becoming louder and louder. "Went to the kids' Consultation Evening at school."

"Oh-" Ed tries frantically to wrestle his thoughts away from the place they were scrambling to, his eyes roaming slowly up and down Cameron's body. "We-I don't think Daniel's had one of those in a while. Zia's-quite-usually, she reportth back."

Cameron gives him an odd look, head on one side. "Have you never been?"

Ed glances at him sharply. "No. I mean-not-not recent-I think I went to his nursery meetingth, but-"

Cameron just nods but he's still watching Ed curiously, head on one side.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Ed tries not to let his voice climb too loudly.

David shrugs. "Like what?"

"Like you're-you're-" Cameron's expression hasn't even changed. Ed has the irrational urge to throw a cushion at him. "You're jutht- _th-sitting_ there-and you-you're jutht-looking like-like you can-you-"

Cameron's mouth twitches very slightly.

"Would you _th-stop smirking_ at me-like we're-like we're not even-you're acting like thith is a _normal conversation_ and we're jutht-"

Cameron leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Ed stops dead.

If Cameron had kissed him on the mouth, he'd have just shoved him away. Or told him not to try and bloody manipulate him by-by-

But he kissed him on the cheek.

Ed nearly opens his mouth, then doesn't. His face is burning. He can't look at Cameron. Cameron's single gentle press of his mouth, warm and soft, has taken the words out of his mouth, leaving an odd, trembling silence, during which oddly, he hears that whisper again, that had electrified his spine and melted his knees, standing in the state room, and later on, his mouth muffled into his pillow, his body hot and needing and lost in a warm, shuddering flood of pleasure, Cameron's mouth a hot, tickling whisper on his neck, _I know what you sound like when you come._

Cameron's watching him. "Are you OK?"

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it. "Why did-what was that?" He splutters the words out.

Cameron's eyes find his own. They watch each other, Cameron's lips moving silently momentarily.

Then Cameron's smile appears, a little less smooth, more crooked than usual. "Haven't you ever been on a date before, Miliband?"

Ed splutters. "A _what?"_

* * *

David can't help but smirk at the outrage on Miliband's face. He's in quite a good mood.

His conversation with Sam earlier helped. He'd waited until this lunchtime to talk to her, though he'd known she'd been waiting for it since they'd driven off on Sunday.

David had put off even thinking about it until Monday, once he'd had at least twenty four hours away from hearing Miliband's voice in his ear, breathy and needing.

(Of course, he'd heard Miliband's voice anyway. On TV screens. On the radio. In recorded excerpts while they had some mini-rehearsals of the TV debates at lunchtimes.)

(He can't get away from Miliband's bloody voice.)

But he'd sat down, after PMQs, with the homemade soup, and said "I need to talk to you."

It had spilled out a lot more easily than David would have expected, as though the words had been waiting to escape. It had been easier to say that they hadn't done anything on Saturday, because they really hadn't.

 _He_ did something. Miliband-well, for all he knows-

"You know he did" Sam had said, quietly, once David had burbled himself to a stop.

David had glanced up at her. "Well. We don't _know_ he did-"

Sam had looked at him.

"OK, he did."

Sam had been silent, curled up in her chair. David had glanced at her, then away. "I didn't think it counted. Or-I did but I didn't expect it to happen."

Sam hadn't said anything, but she'd leaned her chin on her hand, thinking. "The thing is" she'd said slowly. "What if it happens again?"

David had nearly laughed. "I don't think it will. In fact, I'm pretty damn certain it won't." Off Sam's look, he'd shrugged. "Look, Miliband will be panicking. He doesn't even want to admit it happened, let alone discuss it."

He'd taken a deep breath, forced himself to say the words that ached between his teeth. "I think-he doesn't-yeah, I'm pretty sure he's never going to want to do that again. Ever."

It had hurt more than it should.

Sam had looked up at him. "Do you want to do that again?"

David had thought about it, the words settling into his throat.

"I don't know" he'd said, as honestly as he could, looking up at her. "But-probably-not."

Sam just looked at him.

"But probably-the thing is-all this stuff I felt afterwards-I don't know if it was-" David had struggled. "Actually worth-what I felt-during it."

He'd thought for a second. "And I don't even remember what I felt during it, to be honest. I was too-drunk and-worked up generally to remember. I don't even know if I'd think it was worth it."

He'd looked back up at Sam, something becoming clearer in his mind even as he says it. "It wasn't like the kissing. When we both want it. It was just-we were both just-angry."

Sam had grabbed his hand then-really grabbed it, like it was a life raft. David had squeezed back, staring at her.

"You know-" Sam had said each word slowly. "Maybe-you were just-doing it-for the wrong reasons that time."

David had shrugged. "Aren't we doing it for the wrong reasons every time?"

Sam had hesitated, as though about to say something, but then stopped. Instead, she'd leant her head against David's shoulder for a minute, her hand sliding into his without either of them needing to notice.

Despite the way the conversation had ended, David's felt lighter ever since, the simple fact of Sam _knowing_ making him feel better. Sam's known him for so long, it almost feels like he doesn't need to tell her things, but every time he doesn't, it lodges under his ribs, festering.

Now, Miliband's mouthing at him frantically, eyes wide. "You-you-we are not-thith is not-thith is-not-you-"

David grins at him. "I know, but it was easy to say."

Miliband's eyes widen, then narrow. "You really are one cocky bathtard, aren't you?"

David laughs, knowing that will make Miliband's eyes roll again, tugs at Miliband's sleeve. "Don't you like it?"

Ed shakes his head with a huff, looks away. He looks sulky and pouting and hilariously big-eyed.

Maybe that's what makes David reach out and take his hand. He does it without thinking, his fingers folding around Miliband, until Miliband's unthinkingly wrap through his.

David's breath catches but he manages to look away before Miliband can look at him. If they look at each other, Miliband will pull away. David knows this, the way he knows his heart will take another beat in the next second.

"You know we need to talk about it" David says, not looking at him. Not looking at them, holding hands. Their palms are pressed together. His finger's touching Miliband's wristbone.

For a moment, he thinks Miliband's going to ignore him. Then he hears his voice, very soft "No, we don't."

David bites his lip, opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Why not?" His own voice is so small it nearly gets lost in his throat.

Miliband's fingers flex in his, as if he's about to drag his hand away. David has to fight not to grab harder.

"Becauthe-" Miliband swallows. "We didn't mean it. To happen. We were jutht drunk. Weren't we?" His voice rises up in a question, almost pleading.

David glances at him, takes in the wide dark eyes. He opens his mouth, looks away. "I suppose so" he says, more quietly, something aching in his chest at the words.

Miliband's thumb moves, almost unconsciously, over his palm. "Are you-"

"What?"

David looks back at him. "What?"

Miliband shakes his head. "Why-"

David waits, breath catching.

Miliband just stares at him for a moment, and then slowly, carefully, both of their eyes open until the last minute, leans in and presses his mouth softly to David's cheek.

Neither of them move. Ed's breath stutters, warm and hot against David's cheek. Slowly, his lips move again, in another soft, careful kiss. Then another. Another moving to his jaw, trembling and slow and soft, until by the time David turns very slightly, and Ed's hand moves to cup his cheek and their mouths press gently together, David's hyper-aware of the bluntness of Miliband's bitten nails, and the tickle of one strand of Miliband's hair against his own forehead, barely able to hear anything over the roaring of his heart.

* * *

"When's the baby due?" Justine asks carefully, trying to force herself to pat the small rounded bump Rachel is proferring to her, both hands cupping it, as though the baby might fall out any moment. Every time there's a Mumsnet event, there seems to be at least one pregnancy.

"Late June hopefully" Rachel says, unable to keep the small smile off her face-Justine never really understood why women looked as though they were always just happily remembering they were pregnant. "So I'll be going on maternity at the start of June-"

Justine tries not to automatically wince. She dreaded maternity leave, delaying it as long as possible. She'd still been working up until the last couple of weeks before Sam was born, remembers Ed asking her one day, when they were out for a walk, if she was looking forward to it, asking her casually, over his shoulder, like it was nothing at all, if maybe she should think about taking it earlier.

Justine had blinked, thinking she couldn't have heard him correctly. "What?" Her hand had rested on her stomach automatically, and she'd glanced down at it-the way it had fallen into that cliched gesture without her even noticing-with distaste.

"Maybe you should take maternity leave early-" Ed had turned back to the buggy-he was pushing it ahead of her, clearly under the impression that it was a nice gesture to do for your pregnant wife. Even though usually Justine was happy to let him push the buggy, telling herself it was good for Daniel to see them take turns doing the parenting tasks, something about the offer had made her feel as though he'd patted her head or ruffled her hair, relegated to the role of walking around, patting her huge stomach as this baby grew and grew inside her.

"I mean, it juth-st seems like it's wearing on you a bit." Ed had glanced at her over his shoulder, eyes annoyingly wide and earnest. "I mean, maybe it'll make you feel a bit better to have longer at home to prepare before the baby arrives."

"We've already prepared." Justine had hated the catch in her voice, tried to force her hands away from her stomach. "We've just got to finish the nursery, and get hold of a double-buggy. I don't need to be at home for that."

"No, I meant more for you." Ed had slowed down slightly, waiting for her to catch up. Justine had felt resentment stab slowly into her chest, at the way he stood there patiently, making her conscious of the slow way she had to almost amble down the street.

"You know, just so that you feel more settled." For an awful moment, Justine had thought Ed was about to pat her shoulder, like she was a dog, but then, thank God, thank _God_ , he'd started pushing the buggy again. Daniel had made soft, squawking, discontented sounds from inside it-Ed kept sticking his hand over the hood lackadaisically. Justine usually thought it was good for Daniel to learn to entertain himself-usually, he fell silent after a while. But now, the noises had just continued, like an angry little bird.

"I'm fine." Justine had tried not to grind her teeth together, hating the swell of her stomach, the way it pressed down with every step, convinced she could feel every joint and sharp point of the baby crammed inside her. "I don't need more time off. I told you last time, that it was probably easier doing a full day of work than a full day with a newborn."

"I know. But-" Ed had kept slowing down with the buggy. Justine had to fight not to place her hand in his back and physically push him onwards. "Maybe it would just stress you out a bit leth-you know, to have-th-some more time at home before he arrives."

Justine had taken a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists around the material of her maternity top, one she felt like ripping in two. "I don't need more time at home" she'd said, trying to keep her voice low-disagreements were supposed to be kept civil in front of children. "I need to make sure I've got everything finished in the next few weeks."

"I'm sure they'd be underthtanding-"

"Ed." Her voice had wavered higher, her fists clenching at her sides. "I don't need more time off. All right?"

Ed had given her that slightly flinched, wide-eyed look that drove her mad sometimes-like he was a puppy about to be kicked. Justine had looked away, more aware than ever of the bump and the baby squirming inside her and the fact that soon it would be in her arms, scowling, whimpering up at her, waiting for her to tell it what to do next.

Now, Rachel's smiling, as though it's the best thing she can imagine. "Anna's very excited. She's a bit little to understand about the pregnancy, but she knows there's a baby coming-"

"How old is she?"

"She's-she'll be two at the end of this month, actually-" Rachel pats her stomach. "So there'll be a nice gap between them-"

Justine can't help but feel a jab of envy at the gap between them. Two and a half years. That would have been better. Seventeen months between Daniel and Sam. Almost eighteen months. They could have done with a bit longer.

* * *

Ed tries to concentrate on his breathing. Tries to count to ten slowly. Tries anything other than not focusing on Cameron's kissing him.

This has never been a problem with kissing anyone else, and Ed immediately files it under the category of another things to find exasperating about Cameron.

But it's true. Ed's always been able to _think_ while he's been kissing someone. Even when he was dating Liz, when they were kissing, Ed had often had a random policy idea drift into his head around the time he was wondering if he was meant to have his hands there or _there,_ or trying to manoeuvre himself awkwardly so that Liz didn't slide off his lap, and when his attention wandered, he'd often find himself thinking it through, feeling out the drumbeats of a strategy in his mind.

With Cameron, it's not like that. He doesn't think, Ed's realising, oddly, as he tries to think.

Then Cameron's tongue teases his own, very gently, before slowly wandering along the roof of his mouth, and Ed hears a low sound grow in the back of his throat at the odd, tickling sensation, despite the fact that no-one's ever done that and all logic says he shouldn't like that, and then Cameron's gently peeling his collar back, nuzzling at his neck, kissing up and down his neck softly at first, then deeper.

Ed's hands are curling into fists in the back of Cameron's shirt. His heart's pounding, his breathing becoming more rapid, high-pitched little sounds leaking out.

"Be-" His voice cracks embarrassingly. He tugs at Cameron's shirt, a little harder than he intends to. "Be-be careful-my-th-someone will-"

He can feel Cameron's grin against his neck, hates that it makes him want to grin too.

"What was I doing?" He can hear the smirk in Cameron's voice too.

Ed pulls back, tugging sulkily at his collar. Cameron's chin rests on his shoulder, presses his forehead into Ed's cheek.

"Miliband." Cameron's voice around his name sounds wrongly good, bouncing in Ed's chest.

"You know what you were doing."

Cameron just puts his hand up then, very gently, and tugs at Ed's collar. Ed turns to slap at his hand. "Get off-"

David just looks up at him, and then slowly traces the skin on Ed's neck. "See? Nothing."

Ed can't glance down at his own neck, but he blushes at the slow touch of David's finger, stroking back and forth.

"You need to be careful" he says, his voice a little more wavering than usual, "Cameron?"

David's quiet, finger moving more slowly now, eyes resting on Ed's skin. Ed feels his heart beat faster as David's gaze flickers up to meet his own, watching him quietly.

Then David looks away and Ed's a little too grateful.

"There. I haven't marked you." Cameron gives him the ghost of his usual grin. "Frightened you'd get infected by Toryism and economic prudence, Miliband?"

Ed scowls at him.

 _"You_ might be infected" he tries to say with some dignity. "By that logic, you could end up contracting some more th-socialist tendencies."

David winks "I thought you aren't supposed to be a socialist?"

Ed struggles fiercely not to grin. "I th-said I'm not a traditional th-socialist."

"Ah, but you're supposed to be a responsible capitalist."

"No, I th-said I'm a _proponent_ of rethponthible capitalis-"

David kisses him partway through the word.

It's not one of their normal kisses-it's quick and rushed and almost a clumsily eager warm soft push of their mouths together. It's over before Ed's managed to register it's happening, and he opens his mouth and closes it again.

"That-what-that-"

Cameron's looking away, blush creeping up his cheeks. If Ed wasn't suddenly unsure what to do with his hands and trying to find anywhere to look that isn't Cameron and suddenly horribly aware of the heat in his face, he'd never let him forget it.

"That-"

"I would think-" Cameron says a little too quickly and a little too loudly, putting a strenuous effort into not looking anywhere near Ed, "That you'd be used to being in enemy territory by now."

Ed blinks, fumbling with the words a little. "What?"

"Well" Cameron says, recovering a little of his usual cockiness, judging by the smirk he directs at Ed. "I thought I wasn't the first Tory you'd hooked up with."

Ed nearly chokes _. "What?"_

* * *

"You-" Ed splutters furiously. David tries not to grin. "You-you complete- _you_ -what are you even _talking_ about?"

David grins at him. "Weren't you-you know-having some sort of fling with one of Michael's advisers?"

Ed mouths silently, like a furious, blushing goldfish.

"You know, Alice-somebody?"

"Alice- _Alice?"_ Ed splutters, frantically. "Alithe-that was-that was- _yearth_ ago!"

"Mmm. Still got some form, haven't you?"

"Got th-some _form_ -I-we never-I didn't-we never even-ever-"

Ed shuts his mouth tightly, blushing scarlet.

David looks at him, then looks at him again. "You never-wait-you-"

"Shut up."

"OK." David holds his hands up. "OK. I was just-surprised-"

"Well, don't be." Ed almost spits the words out.

"Alice the journalist, that was it."

"Oh, thankth a lot."

"Well, _I_ can't help that she worked for Michael." David gives him a grin. "Maybe you've just got a type-"

Ed swells. "I do _not-"_ He lowers his voice to a furious hiss. "Have a _type."_

David grins. "Well, what did she do when she was with you, then?"

Ed stares at him.

David stares back, then cackles. Ed looks away, scowling.

"Not like _that."_

"Hilariouth."

"I meant-"

"She was a Timeth journalist, all right?"

"How long were you together?"

"God, I don't-a couple of monthth, we juth-st-"

"And there was James."

Ed splutters. _"Jameth-"_

"You know, Purnell. The one who stood down. Didn't you want him to be your Chief Of Staff?"

"No." Ed sulks silently for a moment or so and then "Well, he wath conthidered. What about him?"

David nudges him. "Didn't you know about him and Thea?"

"Thea?"

"Thea-George's Thea, his-you know, his Chief Of Staff-"

"Jameth and _Thea?"_

"Yeah, they had a thing. Back in 2007, or something, I think-"

"Wow." Ed looks away, arching an eyebrow. "God."

"Mmm." David leans back, Ed leaning too, into his shoulders. "I wouldn't have thought it, to be honest."

Ed shrugs, wriggling closer to him. They sit there in silence for a few moments, David kissing Ed's head absent-mindedly, his arm around his shoulders.

It takes another moment before David glances down at his arm around his shoulders. So does Ed.

They both jump back, David yanking his arm to his side and Ed wriggling away.

"Um-" David looks away. "Shall we just-um-"

Ed nods rapidly, looking anywhere but at David. "We-um-we were-"

David kisses him again, another rushed kiss, one hand tilting Ed's chin gently, and Ed's tongue teases his own, his hand gripping into David's hair a little rougher than before, taking control, as though a second ago he hadn't been nestling into David's shoulder, letting his arm wrap around him.

* * *

Ed's trying, for once, to concentrate on how good Cameron is at kissing.

And now he could kick himself because the last thing he needs is to give Cameron _another_ bloody thing to be good at.

But it's easier to concentrate on Cameron being good at kissing than it is to think about his forehead being pressed into Cameron's shoulders, that weird squeeze of Cameron's arm around him-

Or he could concentrate on his phone buzzing.

"Don't answer it yet" David whispers into his mouth, and Ed's ready to pull back and grab his phone and tell Cameron that he's nowhere near as fucking important as Ed's bloody _job,_ which involves him trying to get Cameron _out_ of his, but then Cameron whispers into his mouth, something that sounds like _please_ and Ed-

Ed just-

His breath stutters and his mouth opens into Cameron's of his own accord and his tongue's touching Cameron's but it's softer. Gentler. Cameron's thumb's rubbing beneath his ear, and it's just..nice and gentle.

They won't get caught here, Ed realises suddenly, and it's a weird realisation, unfolding in his chest, that makes him pull Cameron suddenly into another long kiss, his leg sliding over Cameron's knee. Cameron's mouth opens in a gasp, his hands pressing into his cheeks.

Ed's phone buzzes again. And again.

Cameron lets out a grudging little moan, and pulls back slowly, their lips still almost touching. "You'd-you'd better-"

Ed closes his eyes, takes a long, deep breath, as much so he doesn't have to look at Cameron as anything else. "Yeah, I'll-juth-st-"

He turns away, trying not to take in the flush of Cameron's cheeks, the mess of his hair- _his_ hands did that, Ed realises, with a jolt, nearly dropping his phone as he fumbles it out of his pocket-the swollen pout of his lips-

Ed looks away, his heart pounding, staring unseeingly at his phone screen. It takes him a few moments to make out the latest text message from Tom, and then to lift his head, and stare at Cameron.

It takes Cameron a few moments to notice, and then to glance at Ed. "What?"

In response, Ed, teeth clenched together hard enough to hurt, holds out his phone. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

* * *

"Th-so much for thith" Miliband's muttering, dragging his suit back on. David grimaces, rolling his eyes as he hands him his phone back. "Miliband-"

"Don't."

"How the fuck would I have known about this?"

"Oh, I don't know, becauthe she'th your-your daughter's fucking _godmother_ , for God'th th-sake-"

"I don't know what she's going to write." David takes advantage of Miliband's distraction to pull his phone back from his grip. "I didn't know she was going to write this-"

Miliband snorts. From anyone else, it would sound contemptuous, but with those wide dark eyes, it makes David's heart hurt.

"Miliband-" David tugs at his sleeve.

"Give me my phone."

"Miliband-"

This time, what David does next is one of the things he'll look back on in the future, as one of the smarter things he's ever done, though it'll take a bloody long time for him to figure it out.

He looks at Miliband, meets his big, dark-eyed gaze, braced for a retort, and then he wraps his arms around him.

Miliband goes completely still, spine rigid with surprise. David just presses his cheek against Miliband's, and breathes slowly, his arms around him, one hand moving to his hair.

"What are you doing?" Miliband's voice is a whisper against his neck.

"I didn't know" is all David says, even though he knows Miliband's furious, knows this isn't the end of it. "I didn't know. OK?"

Miliband's silent for a long moment, his forehead pressed against David's shoulder, his body stiff and unyielding, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Then, slowly, he lets out a long shuddering breath, and lets himself sink into David's chest.

It's not everything, David thinks, hearing himself release the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. It's not everything, by far.

But right now, he thinks as he just holds Miliband to him unthinkingly, one hand rubbing between his shoulder blades, the other stroking his fingers through his hair, he can keep this.

"It'll be OK" he whispers, not sure which of them he's speaking to, and he tries to let himself believe it.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Just Can't Get Enough-Depeche Mode _ _-"When I'm with you, baby/I go out of my head/And I just can't get enough/I just can't get enough/All the things you do to me/And everything you said/I just can't get enough/I just can't get enough...We slip and slide as we fall in love/And I just can't seem to get enough of..."-this is the song by Depeche Mode that's playing._

_Margaret And Townsend-Rupert Gregson-Williams (The Crown Soundtrack)_ _-I was listening this when I was writing moment before the Comic Relief reception when David and Sam talk while she's getting ready._

_When You're Around-Motion City Soundtrack _ _-"Can we fake it? Can we make believe?/I'm so full of love, it deeply sickens me/..But all I could do was close my eyes/And cross my heart and hope to die/And you don't fucking listen/When I'm around/The least you could do is take it back/All the vicious remarks and verbal attacks/'Cause I can't fucking stand it/When you're around/No, I can't fucking stand it/When you're around"_

_My Sweet Prince-Placebo-" _ _Never thought you'd make me perspire/Never thought I'd do you the same/Never thought I'd fill with desire/Never thought I'd feel so ashamed"_

_Sick Of Losing Soulmates-Dodie _ _-"What a strange being you are/God knows where I would be, if you hadn't found me/Sitting all alone in the dark/A dumb screenshot of youth/Watch how a cold broken teen will desperately lean/On a superglued human of proof"- I was listening to this song when I was writing the conversation between Nancy and Maddy in her room, and while Nancy's painting her face._

_Our Deal-Best Coast _ _-"I wish you would tell me/How you really feel/But you'll never tell me/'Cos that's not our deal..That's you're my deal/That's not my deal"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interview Sam is doing at the reception with Nancy painting her face is real and can be seen here:https://bit.ly/2QRpctM  
> http://dailym.ai/2UqbXT1  
> The kids meeting David Tennant:https://bit.ly/33Sk9yA  
> David and George with their kids and the Beckhams at the Olympics:https://bit.ly/2UHidoo  
> https://bit.ly/2xtwLQL  
> https://shutr.bz/2QTOXKd  
> https://shutr.bz/2UryeA4  
> https://shutr.bz/3av5SKA  
> https://shutr.bz/3dEQkWz  
> https://bit.ly/33TOwEJ  
> https://shutr.bz/3arXhbL  
> https://shutr.bz/2Jpbfiw  
> https://bit.ly/2wzoBWV  
> https://bit.ly/3anAVIi  
> http://dailym.ai/3bzVPEh  
> https://adobe.ly/3dP2sVd  
> https://tinyurl.com/udw2x4d  
> https://adobe.ly/3aFQfQy  
> https://bit.ly/3aDOSSF  
> https://bit.ly/2R5UhtW  
> The 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony, including the Queen jumping out of a helicopter with James Bond:https://bit.ly/2wKl2Ny  
> Nancy's comment about Dave saying to enjoy the perks because they wouldn't be here for long:https://bit.ly/2QRpkJM  
> Emily chasing the kids at a fashion reception was real:https://bit.ly/2xw5xsI  
> The kids getting breakfast from the Downing Street canteen:https://bit.ly/2xyWsz4  
> The picture of Nancy and Elwen when they first moved to Downing Street is here:https://bit.ly/39tbGTy  
> http://dailym.ai/2QQNkwQ  
> Bea's liking for Romeo Beckham:http://dailym.ai/2wLTOGb  
> Michael reading the Caro biographies while Bea was being born:https://bit.ly/2wzmlip  
> Miriam was unimpressed at Justine's "more than a dress" comment and was horrified at how often the Milibands had their kids filmed:https://bit.ly/3dClCNZ  
> http://dailym.ai/2y99DqP  
> Ed and Justine's interviews from the last chapter:https://bbc.in/3dyRYsW  
> https://bbc.in/2UXsflF  
> The critiques of Ed and Justine's interviews that are referenced:https://bit.ly/2vVlmIP  
> https://bit.ly/2QSw8XK  
> https://bit.ly/2wLU87R  
> https://bit.ly/2wKfwul  
> https://bit.ly/2WO39Il  
> http://dailym.ai/3aseVMn  
> Justine at the Mumsnet reception (along with Rachel R):https://bit.ly/2w1QsyI  
> https://bit.ly/2UoUnin  
> https://shutr.bz/3dAPmL6  
> https://shutr.bz/2UFJYh8  
> https://shutr.bz/39vtQUF  
> https://shutr.bz/3dCDc4t  
> https://shutr.bz/3atgwBN  
> Photos published of Dave carrying Florence:http://dailym.ai/2UqJlcn  
> https://bit.ly/2wNUnzg  
> http://dailym.ai/33Si99D  
> https://bit.ly/2wzmT7X  
> The walk Ed and Justine are on in his flashback:http://dailym.ai/3bwUIFo  
> Ed's previous relationships:https://bit.ly/2vWSQGV  
> The Lib Dems worrying Danny was getting too close to the Tories:https://bit.ly/2WR74Ek  
> The "inflatables" reference:https://bit.ly/3buFWyM  
> The Jeremy Clarkson reference (he'd just been suspended for punching a producer):https://bbc.in/2WT7Uk2  
> https://bit.ly/2WMRh9w  
> Rachel R's kids (she's married to an adviser working for the Tory government):https://bit.ly/3dExRK3  
> Alice, Ed's ex-girlfriend, being Michael's adviser:https://bit.ly/33ViXL2  
> Ed did approach James Purnell about being his chief of staff, who had previously dated Thea, George's adviser:https://bit.ly/2UNheDh  
> https://bit.ly/33USrBk  
> Ed B did joke about having "clinches" with other politicians' wives while dressed in his Santa suit:http://dailym.ai/3dEwfQs


	8. Kenspeckle Kitchens, A Proliferation Of Practice And Bittersweet Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which there is paintball, make-up, lecterns, cocktails, a barn and a lot of thinking under sunsets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask).  
> The reference quotes for this chapter refer to Ed's debate preparations, David's sibling rivalries, Nick not allowing his kids to be filmed and the Scottish referendum.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_David (laughing): **I-I do sometimes-someone shouted at-I-I was walking on the street with Elwen, my son, the other day-**_

_Nick (Ferrari): **Oh my God.**_

_David: **-and someone-someone shouted (laughing)-at a-um-a pig-based remark, if I can put it that way, and, erm-Elwen, who's a sweet boy, and-and people up 'til then had been saying some friendly things, and he sort of turned and said "Don't worry, Dad-"-erm-he said-"On the whole, people have been pretty friendly today."-[David Cameron, speaking about Elwen in 2019](https://www.lbc.co.uk/radio/podcasts/david-cameron-the-big-interview-podcast-download/)**_

* * *

_And one of the greatest advantages of the set-up was having my closest colleague living next door. The Osbornes started off staying at their home in Notting Hill, but in August 2011 they decided to move into the No. 10 flat. Not only were George and I good friends, but Samantha and Frances were close, and our children became close too. Nancy (George's goddaughter) and Liberty Osborne (my goddaughter) would take it in turns to make unbelievable messes in either of our kitchens through their cooking experiments. And Elwen (George's godson) and Luke Osborne would play various sports in the garden. On Monday nights they would have art classes together, something we have continued with since we all left Downing Street._

_Did the dads ever argue? Often, but never with anger. Together, we found Downing Street a happy place to live and work. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_**"Oh, I sound like a north London twat from an over-privileged background"** Ed Miliband groaned. Honing his television debating skills was a rigorous and exhausting process..Miliband constantly trumpeted his plans for a "radical mansion tax", so a sprawling mansion in Kent was an unlikely location for the leader's secret TV training sessions. Labour peer and TV mogul Waheed Ali's country pile near Tenterden had, for years, been offered up to senior party figures-although, this time, they were not using the grand house, but the barn. Money was no object for Labour in preparation for the two leaders' debates. The party was taking these extremely seriously. Full tech support was provided. Two professional cameramen filmed the mock encounters, with instant playback available to review Miliband's performance. An expensive set of lecterns had been transported to the rural location, as had a lighting rig and microphones for each of the **"leaders."...**_

_Alongside 69-year-old (Stan) Greenberg, was Mike Donilon, a fixture of the presidential campaigns of every Democrat nominee since Clinton, who had most recently assisted Barack Obama with messaging for adverts and had prepared Joe Biden for TV debates. Completing this trio-referred to by Labour insiders as **"The Americans"-** was Michael Sheehan, the renowned Democrat media trainer who charged Labour $20,000 a day; £184, 609 in total across the campaign. Sheehan went to drama school with Meryl Streep and Sigourney Weaver , taught Hillary Clinton how to use an autocue and has advised Barack and Michelle Obama, Google's Eric Schmidt and Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg. And now: Ed Miliband.-Project Fear: How An Unlikely Alliance Left A Kingdom United But A Country Divided, Joe Pike_

_The sessions were intense, at least eight hours long. Two questions were rehearsed over fifteen minutes, the answers were played back on TV screens, feedback was then given, strategy was discussed, and more research was commissioned to help craft the perfect performance. Footage of Miliband's answers was even clipped and **"dial tested"-** where groups of voters were given handheld devices allowing them to register positive or negative reactions by the second. Several times, the team did a full run-through to help Miliband build up the stamina needed for a two-hour programme. **"There was a huge amount of resources"** explains one member of the team. **"We knew it was make or break."..**.Much time was spent improving how Miliband was standing, his posture, and how he looked while others were speaking. He was instinctively comfortable leaning on one elbow; his American advisers thought this looked relaxed and confident on camera, and so they encouraged him to do it even more._

_Miliband was also told to **"actively listen"** to other leaders' responses, and realise he would always be on camera-because one would be constantly trained on each leader. He was taught how to take advantage of cutaway shots, how to indicate when ending sentences, and even tricks for keeping the camera on him when attacking an opponent. Miliband's policy adviser Tom Hamilton played David Cameron; Lord Stewart Wood and Chris Leslie shared the role of Nick Clegg; director of policy Torsten Bell took on the role of UKIP leader Nigel Farage. Miliband's former speechwriter James Morris-now a partner at Greenberg-played Leanne Wood of Plaid Cymru. But the star of the sessions was Ayesha Hazarika, a former stand-up comedian and adviser to Harriet Harman, who perfectly captured Natalie Bennett of the Greens...The three US campaign veterans had six leaders to focus on, perhaps the most unpredictable of whom were Nigel Farage and Nicola Sturgeon. Miliband was not used to locking horns with either of the pair as neither was in the House Of Commons. To ensure Miliband was match-ready for the SNP leader, Douglas Alexander gave advice and Blair McDougall was sent down from Scotland to provide feedback. But Scottish Labour's major contribution was Kezia Dugdale, the party's deputy leader, who spent hour after hour behind a lectern impersonating First Minister Nicola Sturgeon.-Project Fear: How An Unlikely Alliance Left A Kingdom United But A Country Divided, Joe Pike_

_Because of the danger of UKIP influence in some English marginal constituencies, much time was spent working on how to deal with Nigel Farage. Everyone realised Miliband needed a **"moment"-** something that viewers would talk about at work the next day. The Labour leader wanted that to be a grapple with Farage. UKIP provided a strategic puzzle. **"Everyone in the room hated them and what they stood for"** admitted one source. **"Farage was a joke, a risible figure. But Labour's focus groups were saying "Working-class voters in England are drawn to UKIP and immigration is something they're sincerely concerned about.""** Research also proved Ed Miliband could risk angering his own supporters if he attacked UKIP in the wrong way. If he criticised Farage for being anti-politics or as much of the elite as David Cameron, it went down " **very badly"** with Labour voters. Attacking Farage on immigration also risked losing support._

_Keeping Miliband's mood up was important. Advisers could see him growing in confidence, so feedback was delivered with care. "He was treated with kid gloves and never told his answers were shit, even if they were" explained one colleague, "because we all cared for him, enjoyed being around him: he has a great self-deprecating sense of humour." -Project Fear: How An Unlikely Alliance Left A Kingdom United But A Country Divided, Joe Pike_

_Ed, it is fair to say, is consumed with politics-the process, the personalities, the ideologies. He has little time for anything else-even in his private life. **"He likes culture, but culture with a link to politics"** says a close friend and confidant of the Labour leader. **"He wouldn't go and watch Avengers Assemble."** Over the past year, for instance, on television, Ed has watched Borgen, the Danish political drama; in the cinema, he has been to see Made In Dagenham, the film based on the 1968 strike at the Ford Dagenham car plant; and, as for the theatre, he tells friends he is keen to attend A Walk On Part, the stage adaptation of former Labour MP Chris Mullin's diaries. (That's not to say that nerdy Ed is totally out of touch with popular culture: a visitor to Ed's office tells a story of how he spotted a calendar of the British-Irish boy band One Direction on the wall behind Jill Cuthbertson, the leader's diary secretary. As he was looking at the calendar, Ed wandered over and, pointing at eighteen-year-old Harry Styles, the band member known for his flings with older women, casually remarked: **"This guy's a bonking machine.")** -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_For me as Education Secretary, that was particularly so when there was any coverage about the fact that I'd been educated at the fee-paying Nottingham High School. Here was a decision my parents had made on my behalf when I was young being used three decades later as a stick to beat me with politically, and I would regularly get asked by the media whether I regretted my parents' decision. They made huge sacrifices to send me to that school. My mum put aside all the money she earned working in the pharmacy at the local hospital, and that education was the only luxury we ever had as children. We live in different times now, and today's Labour politicians will make different choices. But I'm still so grateful to my parents for the sacrifices they made, and I would never dream of saying I regretted my education. My parents went for the option they thought was right for me and my brother and sister, because wanting the best for your children is what every parent wants. Each parent has the right to make their own choice about what that is, and no-one else has the right to second-guess those choices. -Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_I took Rory to his cross-country race, one of the big ones, which was held at Stowe public school. It was freezing cold but a beautiful setting and I just got angrier and angrier at the facilities they had compared with state schools. It took an age to drive from the entrance to the school grounds to where we had to park, past things like an all-weather hockey pitch, their own golf club, pitches galore, archery, fantastic changing rooms...Took Rory to Stowe private school where he was doing a cross-country race. Really brought out the class war in me. Unbelievable facilities.-"6th December 2003 -11th December 2004, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Five: Outside, Inside: 2003-2005, Alastair Campbell_

_After his (Blair's) final statement in the Commons, MPs broke convention by standing and applauding him on his way out. Cameron waved to his backbenchers to join in, but Osborne did not need the invitation. His political career had taken place almost entirely under Blair's dominating shadow. By 2007, lots of Tories admired Blair-Gove had **"come out"** in a Times column in 2003, Cameron was his self-described **"heir"** in 2005-but Osborne's ardour was older and deeper. He referred to him in private as **"the master" a** nd even, during Duncan Smith's stewardship of the party, " **our real leader."** **-** George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

**_"I'm not going to start trying to predict the result of the election a month from polling day. You're asking me about deals. I'm not going to begin opening negotiations with anyone before a single vote has been counted. If I were..."_ **

**_"Oh! So you've admitted it. You are preparing to do a deal with Nicola Sturgeon. You're just not prepared to let anyone know what it is yet."_ **

**_"Oh, why don't you just fuck off, David..."_ **

_The room descended into laughter._

_**"I think you may have just lost the election there, Ed."** **-** One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg; Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges _

_If Churchill or Gladstone would have struggled to comprehend the breathless way in which politics functions under the modern media glare, I suspect they would have been even more dismayed by the Americanisation of our attitude to politicians' families. One way or another, the pressure on frontline politicians to display their children and to confect an impression of **"normality"**_ _in their family life has increased dramatically in recent years.It is a trend that, like so many trends, appears to have started in the USA, where families are now part of the stock-in-trade of a politician's public wares. I imagine this has happened because it works: there's nothing that humanises a politician better than letting the cameras capture a warm family hug. In my time as party leader, I watched how David Cameron built his early reputation on unprecedented access to his home life, and how Ed Miliband sought to salvage his later reputation with similar access to his family during the 2015 election campaign. I have no doubt they were both effective-the repeated insights by way of **"WebCameron"**_ _into life in the Cameron household provided a powerful contrast to the stuffiness of previous Tory leaders and the sight of Ed Miliband walking with his children in a North London park during the election campaign helped to show a warmer side to him. When my own political fortunes started to plummet, it was gently suggested on a number of occasions that I might want to consider exposing my devotion to my own children, in order to offset the bloodless caricature that was being made of me by my critics. But Miriam and I never countenanced doing so. We wanted to protect the innocence of our children. It was not their fault that their dad had decided to go into politics, and I always felt they were as entitled to a carefree childhood as any other child. I do not in any way seek to judge the decisions of other politicians-all parents should be left to take their own decisions-but Miriam and I asked ourselves what it would feel like for Antonio, Alberto or Miguel to turn up at school and find that their classmates were talking about their appearance on TV or in a magazine. It would, we feared, make our children feel very different-separate even-from their peers at school. To be known as the son of the Deputy Prime Minister was a sufficient burden, we reckoned, and we didn't want to add to it by bringing their faces, and their innocence, into the public gaze.- Politics: Between The Extremes, Nick Clegg_

_There was also the Nigel Farage factor. I first met him in 2002, when I was a new MP and he was a new MEP, and we were appearing on Radio 4's Any Questions together. People often say **"He's the sort of person you'd have a pint with"** to convey how down-to-earth he is. I've never had a drink with him, but we did have a cigarette as we waited for the show, and I can attest to his amiability. Yet there are many contradictions. A man who preaches anti-politics, but who has himself been a politician for twenty years. A critic of corporate interests and banking who made his money as a commodities trader in the City. A working-class warrior who went to private school. Someone who bemoaned European immigration, but was married to a German and lambasted an EU gravy train he'd been riding for years. At heart, I thought he was easy to understand. I know the type very well. A Conservative who thought **"Enoch (Powell) was right"** about Europe and immigration, who admired Margaret Thatcher for her strength in turning the country round, but overlooked her commitment to our membership of the EU and to making a success of a multiracial Britain..What Farage lacked in working-class credentials he made up for in charisma and an instinctive understanding of his audience. He was also willing to show an unpleasant side. His dog whistles-more like foghorns on occasion-on TB or HIV sufferers coming into the country seemed designed to stir up anger rather than to solve a problem.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_His only real worry seems to have been competing with his big brother, which he saw as a significant challenge. He says he struggled to carve out his own identity and feared he was " **set on a track"** to live in Alex's shadow. **"Everything I did, I felt he had already done"** he has said. **"You think that you are doing everything the same, only three years later...that was something I used to worry about quite a lot, that I was never going to break out of my brother's shadow."** Nowhere would he feel this more acutely than at school....As the younger sibling of an older pupil, the future Prime Minister was known as " **Cameron Minor"** shortened to **"Cameron Mi";** while his brother-remembered by teachers as the more extrovert and popular of the two-was known as **"Cameron Ma."**_

_According to former teacher Christopher Bromley-Martin, Cameron Mi was **"tidy"** and **"a sort of miniature example of what he is now." "He hasn't changed in appearance at all, really, except in an obvious sort of way. He really is quite unmistakeable"** he says. Carder remembers both him and his parents with affection: **"I remember him being a cheerful, happy little guy, lovely nature.... His brother was an absolutely delightful child, outgoing, lovely sense of humour, and David was very like him, though perhaps a little quieter."** -Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft And Isabel Oakeshott_

_As a new boy (at Eton), Cameron's integration was significantly eased by the presence of his brother Alex, who had by then been at the school for three years and was extremely popular. This was a mixed blessing. At Heatherdown, where it was Alex who made the bigger impression, the future Prime Minister initially struggled to compete with his effortlessly charming and extrovert sibling who was, former pupils say, **"someone people adored immediately."**_

_Alex Cameron also had a taste for practical jokes. James Deen, another of Cameron's peers, recalls him returning to Eton aged twenty or twenty-one and locking everyone in the chapel. **"He was caught and had to go to his old housemaster"** he says. " **Alex was more of a prankster and Dave was just your normal well-behaved little brother."** -Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ascroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_**Was there anything about your childhood that you had to overcome?** _

_Nothing, really. Although I wouldn't say that I had this completely gilded youth where I never had any problems or challenges. I suppose the biggest challenge for me was, as a younger brother, having the feeling that you're living in your brother's shadow. Are you a younger brother?_

_**No, older, by five years.** _

_Have you ever asked him about this?_

_**We've discussed it, yes.** _

_He (Alex) is three years older than me, so everything I did I felt he had already done, and you feel like you're set on a track and living in his shadow. They go to a school, you start going to school, they start playing football, you start playing football, they kiss girls, you start kissing girls-and you think that you are doing everything the same, only three years later, and I think that was something I used to worry about quite a lot, that I was never going to break out of my brother's shadow._

_**Often when that happens, the younger sibling rebels, becomes something of a renegade, but that didn't happen to you. Far from it, in fact...** _

_Well, a bit actually. Going to Oxford made me feel like I had achieved something that he hadn't done, as he went to Bristol. As for rebellion, I mean, wanting to break the rules and misbehave and do things I shouldn't have done was partly to forge your own path, but I don't want to get into the things I did and didn't do. I wasn't a complete rebel, but I used to like to do things that I wanted to do. But that doesn't sound like a huge bunch of things to get over in your youth.- Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_As the finish line approached and victory seemed certain, the Prime Minister popped up to his flat to wake his two eldest children, Nancy and Arthur. Their parents had explained the referendum was an important moment for the UK. And Cameron-approaching the end of his first and possibly only term in No.10-wanted them to join him at this historic moment. When the final confirmation came, the two children were on their father's lap, surrounded by his closest aides. -Project Fear: How An Unlikely Alliance Left A Kingdom United But A Country Divided, Joe Pike_

_For instance, consider this cycle of despair. We decided that allowing ITV (and BBC) cameras in to film Miliband and his family "relaxing at home" during the election was an opportunity to show viewers **"the real Ed."** But by this stage, we had almost lost sight of what that was, so neuralgic had we become about concealing his most left-wing instincts from voters or preventing him ever being seen eating sandwiches. Our media team sought to choreograph every moment of the visit down to the plastic toys his children would walk in carrying._

_It did not stop Sarah Vine, a Daily Mail columnist, using the film to attack the Miliband family for having such an austere kitchen it might have been modelled on Soviet-era flats. Another newspaper columnist (Jenni Russell, whose child Ed Miliband is godfather to), ever keen as she was to show off her connections, tweeted that she knew the Milibands had a " **lovely"** second kitchen and only used the one shown on TV for the " **preparation of tea and quick snacks."** Miliband, in a spasm of honesty, then admitted the second kitchen was " **just for the nanny."** The verdict from the media-both old and new-was that we had cynically sought to portray Miliband as normal and the whole operation had backfired into an authenticity disaster. It was hard to disagree.-Ctrl Alt Delete: How Politics And The Media Crashed Our Democracy, Tom Baldwin_

_Just after the Darling call, Cameron's children come downstairs and rush to their father. They sit on his knee. It is the first time that they seem to understand fully the significance of the work that their father does: **"Everyone could see how much it mattered to him and they obviously picked up on what was at stake for their father."** **-** Cameron At 10: The Inside Story 2010-2015/Cameron At 10: The Verdict: From Election To Brexit, Anthony Seldon And Peter Snowdon_

_Prince Edward was an exact contemporary of my brother, and I overlapped with both of them. Alex and Edward became friends, and Alex went to stay at Windsor Castle, even having breakfast once on the Queen's bed. I was madly jealous. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_What do you do on a day when your country hangs in the balance? As Nancy was due to start secondary school the following year, Sam and I went to look around one option, Holland Park in west London. There I was reminded just how transformational independence for our schools through academy status could be. Pupils were learning Latin and Greek. There was a sense of discipline and drive. It had echoes of the school I went to. And yet this was a co-educational comprehensive in the middle of London. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_A word on being indecisive. The previous year, February 2006 had brought Elwen into our lives. Like Nancy, he was born under C-section at St Mary's, Paddington._

_Normally, parents can discuss baby names at their leisure. But we didn't have that luxury. Gabby (Bertin) burst in soon after the birth telling us we had to come up with a name now, otherwise I'd look indecisive. I liked Arthur. Boring, said Sam. She sent me out to buy a book of names, and decided on Elwen-not the Welsh Elwyn, but the J.R.R. Tolkien version, meaning " **friend of the elves."** So Elwen he became (but Arthur Elwen on his birth certificate.)-For The Record, David Cameron_

_There are ten guest bedrooms. More than a thousand acres of land. An indoor pool. Tennis court. Two chefs. Plentiful staff. How can that possibly be justified? All I can say is that it makes the job more do-able, and frees the PM from the day-to-day fray so he or she can think and plan. The family and I would spend one weekend out of four there, and the rest at Dean...At Chequers, Florence's cot was in the room next to where Lady Mary Grey, sister to the **"Nine Day Queen",** was imprisoned on the floor above our bedrooms. Nancy would give guests guided tours, and proclaim **"We won't be living here for long-it's only while Dad's prime minister."** She'd go into the house's history, talking about some of the figures who had a connection with it, like **"Oliver Crumble."** **-** For The Record, David Cameron_

In the end it is a win for No and Better Together. And a good decisive win of over 10 per cent-enough to put the question away for a generation (or so we hope.) As Dumfries and Galloway, Perth and Kinross, and Edinburgh come in decidedly for NO, we celebrate with more tea and croissants. Nancy and Elwen run down from the flat in their onesies. They have set an early alarm, worried because they sense their Dad is. David gathers them in his arms, a relieved man...Statement delivered, it already feels like a long day's work. At 7.30 a.m., David goes off to have breakfast with Samantha. Ed, Rupert, Craig and I decide to follow suit, crossing the road to have porridge in St James's Park-a nod to our Scottish cousins. Watching the birds flock to the lake I feel an enormous sense of relief. But also, a sense that we have saved a life we had not meant to risk in the first place.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall

* * *

_I was very serious. Too serious. I mean, I hope my children are sort of-I think I want to bring them up to be less serious (than he was.) And all that sort of par-co-parenting thing is quite an interesting sort of challenge, because I think people will come from their own-background-Jus-I think, I would say, Justine is keen on making sure they-watch-maybe she's more assiduous at making sure they do their reading and all that, and I think that's important, but....it's getting the balance. -Ed Miliband, speaking in 2019_

* * *

_""And also! She's like...oatmeal...No. No! Pudding. Hospital pudding, the kind that comes dry out of a packet and you add water."_

_"So she's pudding. What do you care?"_

_"I don't care. I..."_

_"What?"_

_"Give me a second, I'm thinking."_

_"Slowly."_

_"Fuck you...Because she doesn't try, that's what I hate about her. Because she's nothing, she's blah, and fine if that's what she wants, but she walks around all bitter and sulky that people treat her like she's nothing-"_

_"People meaning you."_

_"Sure, whatever. Me. Acting like it's somehow my fault that she's a loser. Like I'm some kind of fucking witch, and I put a curse on her."_

_"Poof!" I zapped her with my magic finger. "You're pathetic."" -Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_"We stared at the house for a while. The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing's happening inside of them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wondered if that was sort of the point of architecture." -The Fault In Our Stars, John Green_

_"I'm a sucker for babies right now." She looked wistfully at a boy child with a coy smirk on his cherubic face. "He reminds me of my baby. You really don't like it?"_

_I didn't know at the time that Aimee was pregnant with Kara, her second child. She probably didn't know it herself. To me, it was obvious the whole picture was ridiculous, and the pink-cheeked infants especially repulsive, but when I looked at her face, I saw she was serious. And what are babies, I can remember thinking, if they can do this to women? Do they have the power to reprogram their mothers? To make their mothers into the kind of women their younger selves would not even recognize? The idea frightened me.-Swing Time, Zadie Smith_

_Long before it became her career, my mother had a political mind: it was in her nature to think of people collectively. Even as a child I noticed it, and felt instinctively that there was something chilly and unfeeling in her ability to analyse so precisely the people she lived among: her friends, her community, her own family. We were all, at one and the same time, people she knew and loved, but also objects of study, living embodiments of all she seemed to be learning up at Middlesex Poly. She held herself apart, always...My mother didn't fit into all of that any longer. She still cared for the group-intellectually, politically-but she was no longer one of them. -Swing Time, Zadie Smith_

* * *

" _Why their kitchen tells you all you need to know about the mirthless Milibands...and why there's nothing to suggest that Ed and Justine are not, in fact, aliens._ " Beatrice lifts her head from the paper thoughtfully. " _The one thing that was totally lacking from her interview, however, was humour-that, and any sign of warmth, empathy or fallibility-"_

"I know what's in it, Bea, I wrote it.

" _Like the late Mr Spock, one gets the impression she considers them unnecessary, inconvenient, and wholly surplus to requirements-_ she _does_ kind of look like Mr Spock, doesn't she?" Bea considers, peering at the newspaper with an unusual amount of interest.

"She's got the eyes-" William widens his eyes, then again. Beatrice tilts her head to the side, parts her mouth slightly in an imitation of Justine's earnest look.

"I actually meant Mr Spock more personality-wise" Sarah tells them, snatching the packet of Oreos out of Beatrice's hand. "Bea, you're not having bloody Oreos for breakfast, eat some Special K-Portillo won't let it go tonight, though-"

"Michael's very polite" another Michael says, from across the table, just managing to lift his face from his book.

"Well, he still refers to women as ladies, so-" Sarah shrugs, tries to manoeuvre the spoon into Bea's hand. "Bea, if you don't put the paper down and put the spoon in your mouth-"

*" _A child, spreading Nutella on a slice of bread, or a husband in search of crackers-_ "-Bea glances around the kitchen. "I don't know why you've gone on so much about our kitchen in this article. Most of the time, all you do is whine about how much you hate the table and go on about that one time we were making the smoothies-"

"Yeah, and the kitchen resembled something out of _Carrie-"_

"That's only because Will put the strawberries and raspberries in, and didn't-put them over the line on the blender-"

"She put that bit in-"

"What?" Bea slides the paper back from her brother.

"Yeah, there. Not the bit about the smoothies." William jabs at the page. "Bit about us being difficult."

"I did not call you _difficult-"_

"You complain about us. You said we wouldn't pass a health and safety inspection."

"Anyone would complain about you." Sarah tugs at William's school sweatshirt. "You'd reduce the bloody-whoever the saint of children is to considering suicide."

"That's actually quite offensive, I think-"

"You looking at your phone during every meal is quite offensive, Bea, everyone puts up with you."

"All right, you don't need to be so _touchy."_ Bea looks up over her phone, her green eyes widening. "Oh my god, are you going through the _change?"_

Michael nearly spits out his tea. Sarah slams her hand down on the table. "Would you stop mentioning the change in front of your dad, you know he can't cope with it."

"That's quite offensive, as well-"

"In a minute, you'll be finding it offensive to walk to your Spring Concert with your mouth sewn shut."

* * *

"Brilliant." Tom slams his hand into the table, at the last moment managing to turn his fist so that his phone remains unscathed. "Fucking _brilliant."_

"It's not really a surprise" Anna pipes up, ignoring the fact nobody looks at her. "Her husband invented Gogglebox. Really, that shit can die."

"You only don't like it-" Rachel says, without lifting her head from the table. "Because one of the participants said Ed sounded like a talking nose."

Greg opens his mouth, then closes it. "That is actually pretty accurate."

"Well, Jenni Russell was talking out her bloody arse when she asked Ed to be godfather to her kid." Ayesha manages to say all of this in one breath as she slams the door open, already proffering her own phone.

"We saw" Rachel says, before Ayesha launches into another tirade.

"Is it really that bad?" Anna says, her voice stretching into a thin whine. "I mean, plenty of people have got two kitchens."

The entire table turns to look at her slowly. It's Tom who eventually speaks. "Look, Anna, I mean this nicely, but have you ever thought about just going and making tea or something?"

He spins round before Ayesha can open her mouth. "And don't tell me that's sexist, I'd say it to Spencer."

"You have said it to Spencer" Rachel points out.

"See? I _have_ said it to Spencer."

"On multiple occasions."

"A kitchenette" the other Tom says, looking at his phone again. "A kitchenette. That's not good."

"Kitchenettes aren't bad."

"Kitchenettes aren't _bad?"_ Tom nearly throws the phone across the table. "Kitchenettes aren't bad-who the fuck even knows what a kitchenette _is?_ _I_ don't fucking know what a kitchenette is! _No one_ fucking knows what a kitchenette is apart from fucking-twats who think a three-storey house with a scullery means you've just crawled into the middle class, because once upon a time, it didn't cost very much-"

"You're proving the point" Rachel mutters.

"Someone's going to have to tell Alastair."

Ayesha openly screeches her chair back from the table. "I'm going to go and find something that urgently needs writing, and do it."

"Sod off, Ayesha, no one meant you."

Ayesha pulls her chair back into the table again.

"Chances are" other Tom points out, agreeably."He will already have seen it."

Rachel's phone buzzes. Slowly, the gazes of the others at the table fall to it.

"Don't answer it" Ayesha says immediately.

"I'm not."

"He'll go away." Rachel glances at Anna disbelievingly. Anna gives her an aggrieved look. "He might."

"He won't." Tom's eyeing the phone with the look of someone who's seen this before, who wishes he could be so naive.

The phone stops.

There's three seconds of silence before it starts to ring again.

Ayesha slowly moves her chair back from the table. Anna follows suit.

"Oh, fuck off, then." Rachel reaches for the phone. "I'll talk to him."

She reflects as she watches Anna make for the door that she's rarely seen Anna move that fast before. Tom, uncharacteristically, waits until the door's closed before he leans back in his chair. "Get it over with."

"Nah." Rachel turns the phone over. "I just wanted to get Anna out of the room. It's PPI, telling me I've been in an accident that never happened."

"Unlike if it had been Alastair" other Tom supplies helpfully. "Then it would have been an accident that _would_ have happened."

"Remove "accident" and you're bang on."

* * *

"What the fuck is this shit?"

A light laugh. "Nice to hear from you too, Ali."

"Don't give me _Ali."_ Alastair half-shouts it down the phone, steering his way around the tube platform, where someone spluttering expletives into a mobile isn't an extraordinary sight. _"You're_ the one who's decided to double-tag-team your fucking leader on the front pages."

There's a chuckle. "What are you reading and where can I find one?"

"Don't you think you've already given them enough red meat around your sexuality?"

"I don't want to think you're projecting there, Ali."

"I don't give a fuck what you think I'm projecting." Alastair walks up the steps into the street, tilting his head to see if he can catch a glimpse of the sun breaking through the clouds. "What the fuck are _you_ projecting this shit onto a fucking front page?"

"I can't help it if people want to write books about me, Ali."

"You won't be fucking helping what's going in my next one, I can tell you that for fucking nothing."

"I'd have thought you'd have been a little more sympathetic." Alastair can picture Tony's smile, the way it had been every time Alastair said he was leaving, only for Tony's eyes to widen, head tilting to one side, allowing himself to look crushed. "I mean, you and Peter weren't exactly chasing a positive press for him a few months ago."

Alastair grinds his teeth. "That was then. This is now."

"And here I thought your loyalty to any Labour leader would always be unwavering." Tony says the words as a laugh. Because he's Tony, which is why Alastair wants to smile too.

"Tony."

"What, Ali? What can I do for you?" Tony makes his voice sing-song.

"Stop fucking patronising me for a start.

"Ali, I'm not patronising you." Tony switches tones as easily as flicking through a playlist. Bored with that one, onto the next. "But, you have to admit-it is rather-I don't want to say _hypocritical_ , but-"

"And yet you did."

"But it was somehow different for you and Peter?"

"Well, it's not me and fucking Peter anymore, is it" Alastair spits out the words, hating himself for knowing it's the only way to make Tony flinch, hating that Tony knows he knows that. "It's too fucking late now, and we're in the middle of a fucking election campaign, so right about now is the time when we put up or shut up, to quote a popular fucking phrase."

"So you think he could win?"

Alastair hesitates. "I think there's a good chance."

"So you want him to win."

"A Labour government's better than a Tory government."

"So you want him to win? Ed?"

"I want Labour-"

There's a silence, broken only by the sound of raindrops beginning to patter slowly on the pavement as Alastair walks.

"Just keep yourself off the front pages" he says, trying to push down that last unfinished sentence welling between them. "If you can't say something good for us."

Tony laughs, after the slightest of pauses. "I shall take my spin doctor's advice on board."

Alastair tugs his tie looser, almost without noticing. He pretends not to notice that he hasn't answered the question again, and that Tony's not still asking.

* * *

"Come on, it is funny" George says, ignoring Rupert's rasied eyebrows at him. "You guys tried to present him as Mr Down-To-Earth Family Man, and instead he walks out looking like Tony the Twatty Toff." George rests his feet on the desk. "Not a reference to your former leader, by the way."

"Well, it wouldn't be, would it? You lot were already pretty close to his feet."

George chuckles. "You have to admit it. It is funny. He managed to mess up just having his own house filmed. It's a different level of incompetent."

Balls is silent. George shrugs. "We're not recording the phone call, Balls, everyone knows you think he's crashing and burning."

"You know if you're going to attribute a quote to me-"

"Infer. I prefer infer." George grins. "Then again, maybe it's a Nottingham thing."

"What?"

"Well, you know. Miliband's wife went to Nottingham Girls', you were at Nottingham High-private-school, champagne socialists that betray together, stay together-"

He can practically hear Balls swell indignantly on the other end. "I've told you-"

"Yeah, yeah, your parents made sacrifices to send you there, I know, I know-my parents made sacrifices to send me to St Paul's, as a matter of fact-"

Balls snorts. "Do you honestly think it was the same?"

"Do you honestly think most people could afford Nottingham High?"

There's a silence.

George swings his feet off the table, noticing Sajid's tapping of his watch. "Anyway, what did you call for? I'm not giving you a look at the Budget, I don't care what you dress up as."

Sajid's eyebrows arch. George grins.

"Have you ever heard of projection?"

"Have you ever heard of protesting too much?"

"I thought Tuesday was about discussing-" Balls lets his voice trail off, probably in an office surrounded by aides.

"We were going to. I just thought you got incredibly invested in hiding behind sofas."

"Fuck off."

"Gladly."

"We can't leave things like this." Balls' voice is tighter now, betraying the tension underneath the words. "We talk about it and we-" George can picture him glancing at the others in the room, measuring his words. "Haven't come to any conclusion."

George snorts. "Is that a common issue for you?"

"Osborne."

* * *

"I didn't authorise the bloody article, OK?"

There's a silence. David glances at the door.

"Miliband, I don't have the luxury of you not bloody saying something, I'm at a bloody BAE systems in Warton."

"Good."

"Oh, piss off, would you, you know full well I'd have fucking told you."

"Would you?"

David bites his lip. "You know I would."

There's another silence.

"Miliband, why the hell would Sarah even tell me she was writing it ?" David, sensing an advantage in the silence, presses forward. "She doesn't even tell _Michael_ what she's writing sometimes, so she, she wouldn't-"

"Becauthe it'th not th-sometimes." Miliband's voice, which David had been expecting to waver petulantly, is just flat. As though he's just resigned to this. "Thith is part of your campaign."

David bites his lip. "I promised you." The words sound small, schoolyardish.

There's another silence.

"What, you're saying I'm lying to you?" The words sound defiant, polished, but David hears them falter in the air a moment later. This thing with Miliband stretches out between them, more fragile than any of their previous deals and arrangements.

If Miliband doesn't trust him, it doesn't work. It can't.

But Miliband will never trust him.

Or trust him on this-

"No." David winces at the fact he can just tell Miliband will have shrugged slightly with one shoulder. Tried to make it look as careless as possible.

"Then what are you saying?"

There's a longer silence. David counts in his head, gives another antsy look at the door, waiting for the moment Liz or Gabby will walk in and tell him it's time to go. He's almost given up on Miliband saying anything when there's a sigh at the other end of the phone, a breathy little sound.

"I'm th-saying it plays well for you." Miliband's voice is flat, low. "That'th what I'm th-saying."

Something about the words makes David's heart ache.

"Ed." He doesn't know what he's about to say. He could tell him it's an article. He could tell him it's just Sarah's job, that it could be anything about Ed they'll pick up on and the fact he hands them so much doesn't help-

Because the fact is, Ed _did_ hand it to them, and that doesn't help.

A tap on the door has David turning round to see Gabby and so he doesn't get to tell Miliband that people just want to read something taking him apart, and doesn't get to not tell him that people enjoy reading it all the more if it rings true.

* * *

"Erm-I know Ed Miliband got a lot of-er-flak-you know, for, erm-using his family as a kind of erm-er-sort of propaganda tool-you know-in the media-erm-you know, u-using his family to actually sort of bolster up his image-er-but-er-can Nick Clegg promise everyone now on air that he won't do the same, because it is very tempting, isn't it?"

Nick's too busy wondering if the caller's a plant from Tory HQ faking a Scouse accent, for the moment. He's no doubt someone there's punching the air.

"This is the appearance by Ed Miliband walking in the park with his wife Justine and the two-the two sons-" The other Nick lifts his hands. "Which actually were full-on-camera-and then we went into the kitchen and I think we went to a cafe with Mr and Mrs Miliband-" Other Nick glances down. "I have to say David Cameron-well, we've also been in his kitchen, we've seen his wife, and we've seen his children-Nick Clegg, we see a lot of-er-your lovely wife-I don't think you've ever put your _children_ up for public examination. Where do you stand on this?"

"So, Eric, I-I think you might catch glimpses of my kitchen-" Nick laughs slightly. "Errr-you certainly, I hope, will, will, will, will catch sight of-er-Miriam-"

"Yeah, I wouldn't, I wouldn't blame you!" The other Nick chuckles.

"You-you will-you will never catch sight of my children-I mean-and I-"

"It would help, you know, if we could see the kids-" James had argued, somewhat lackadaisically, back in January, when we were mapping out the campaign.

"No." Nick hadn't even bothered to look up.

"We wouldn't have to show their faces. They could be filmed-" James didn't even bother to look up to make the argument-they were so well-worn.

"No-"

"Look, if it's Miriam who we have to square it with, maybe we could persuade her-I mean, this is to keep you in government-"

And at that, Nick had looked up, because that wasn't an argument he'd heard before.

"It's not Miriam you have to square it with" he'd said, his voice still mild, but his gaze level with James', staring back at him, until James looked away, colour rising to his cheeks. "It's me."

"Look, and, and by the way, I'm not criticising-I'm not making oblique criticism-of David Cameron, Ed Miliband or their-sort of-the cam-"

James would say he is. But James would approve.

"So why do you feel the way you do, Mr Clegg?"

"Well, I-I-I've always felt very, very strongly that my children are entitled to an innocent childhood just as much as any other kids-we-we still live in the home that we did before I became Deputy Prime Minister-we didn't take up the invitation or the suggestion to move into the great sort of fancy flats behind the battlements of-er-Downing Street or W-or-you know-Whitehall-"

"We had quite a lot of pressure-at the time to go to one of the houses of-of the government-" Miriam had explained a few days earlier to Tom Bradby standing in their kitchen, her large dark eyes shining, the casual jumper she'd picked out for the filming somehow making her beauty catch the lenses even more.

"Yeah-" Nick had been watching Miriam, as she'd explained, as easy as if the cameras weren't there, but angled slightly in front of him, protectively.

"And we-we discuss and thought that the best thing would be for the children to stay here and I can actually-that's-"

"Discussion is a rather grand word for Miriam basically saying no-" Nick had glanced at her, anchoring himself away from the glare of the cameras set up on the other side of the kitchen, watching them, not hearing Tom's words. Miriam's smile had opened out in his chest.

"And-er-"

"Oh no, I know, but you were so right-" He taps her arm gently, wanting to pull her close, hide in her hair. "You were so right-"

"But I think, if you look at it with perspective-" Nick had been content to let Miriam explain a few minutes later, her voice washing over him like a chattering stream.

"It has been the best decision for-for all of us-"

"Definitely-"

"And if I may, I think that-also for Nick-"

"Mmm-"

"Because-I-you can see how politicians sometimes-they can get in a bubble-" Miriam laughed, her hands moving around, shaping her words in the air.

"Yeah-"

"And be completely distant from-from normal society-"

"That's right-"

"And I think that if you're-you're in your house, in your neighbourhood-" Miriam had said something Nick couldn't understand, and he'd been reminded strongly of the first day he'd met her, trying to keep up with her flow of Spanish, her dark eyes sparkling in his chest, making him glow.

He'd watched Miriam a few minutes later, her head shaking slightly, hair falling around her face, as she tucked a strand behind her ear-"And it's not any more of a difficulty than what many others have to go through, you know-it's-it's-you never take it personally-"

"I know, and I-I think that's the thing, not to take it seriously-"

Miriam had glanced at him, with her smile, the same one she'd worn a few moments later, when she'd said, her voice softer than usual, "I think what helps most is-that we are great together." Nick had caught onto it out of the corner of his eyes, held onto it, felt it pulling him back to the ground, keeping him safe.

"And the reason we've done that is because-I mean, much though I'll talk, all day long, if you want, Eric, with pride about my three little lovely boys-"

_"Papa, who are students?" Antonio had asked, all nine years of him, nestled into Nick's side, head pressed into his pillow._

_"Students?" Nick had pressed a kiss to his forehead. "They're people who go to university-"_

_Antonio had blinked up at him out of big, dark eyes. "Why do they hate you?"_

"I'm completely besotted by them-I don't want them when they go to school-to suddenly have someone sitting next to them say "Oh, I saw you on the telly-"-I-it makes them feel different-"

"No" Miriam had said, flatly, when James had asked her, and she'd walked to the other side of the kitchen without looking back. Nick had glared at him over the countertop, at the echo of the conversation, as though he'd assumed Nick was easy enough to persuade, that it was Miriam who was the real problem.

"Now, look, I cannot stress enough-if other politicians want to do things as parents, it's _entirely_ free for any parent to do whatever they want, but Miriam-"

"But why-"

"Miriam and I have always been very, very-adamant that-you know-w-er-we are mums and dads first, we want to protect the innocence of our children and-"

"But why-"

"One of the ways we're trying to do that and make them feel as absolutely normal as anybody else is to keep their life the same-so we're still living in the same home, as I said-and also that we keep them out of the public eye."

"But why do you think I want to see inside your kitchen?" The other Nick leans forward, eyes fixed on Nick.

"Well, you-you haven't seen my kitchen-" Nick laughs slightly.

"Well, I-"

"If you saw it, you might change your mind!"

"But Ed Miliband thinks I want to see his kitchen-"

Nick can't help but laugh.

"David Cameron thinks I want to see his kit-"

"Yeah-"

"I admire Nigel Farage, I don't think he'd even let me through the front gate-why do you think that you-potential voters want to see your kitchen?"

"I-I d-I-I've no idea whether people do or don't-"

"Why do it, then?"

"Oh, because you're constantly asked to." The words splutter out, sharpened a little by indignation. "You're constantly asked-"

"Well, you might be asked to do lots of things!"

"No-I know, I know-and I am, by the way, constantly asked-no, that people-have thankfully stopped doing it now-I am constantly asked-"Oh, wouldn't it be nice to do something with your child, show yourself as a family-you know-man"-as indeed, I am-"Oooh, you know, you're so nice with your children, it would be so nice for people to see it"-and-"

"I still think you're overthinking this" James had said, as he'd headed for the door the night before Bradby was due to arrive.

Nick had shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "They won't" he'd said, and he'd left James to work out who he meant.

"Miriam and I have always-you know-very much drawn the line there-" He leans back slightly in his chair-"-and -and said "Absolutely not.""

* * *

"Got any questions before Round 2?" Rachel asks, with a quiet tug at Ed's sleeve, eyeing his tie critically. Ed adjusts it himself with a frown. Ayesha usually takes care of these sorts of things.

"Yeah." He glances over her shoulder at the small gaggle of reporters. "Why are we doing thith with the Birmingham Mail?"

Rachel gives him a too-bright smile, scarlet lipstick too vivid above her teeth. "Because-" she says, without changing her expression-"This looks more casual. Like we're not bothered by it. The more we react to it, the bigger a story it becomes. But a local paper's pleased to get a scoop, so they'll pass it on to nationals."

Ed smiles awkwardly. "Wouldn't it be better to not th-say anything, then?"

"We can't" says Tom bluntly, marching up behind them. "Every fucking newspaper's running with it. Do not mention Zia. God, do not even fucking mention Zia."

"Did you get hold of Russell?" Rachel asks, now tugging Ed's collar into place.

"I don't th-see why I couldn't have talked to her-" Ed argues. "She is the-"

"Yeah, we know you're godfather to her kid." Tom lets his briefcase fall against the brick wall with more vigour than is really necessary. _"The Mail, The Telegraph, The Sun-everyone_ knows that back in the '90s, you were entrusted with the spiritual development of dear little Jessica. That's yet another thing we don't need."

Ed waits, then says, quietly, "It was Harry, actually."*

Tom makes a noise like an angry cat. Ed can't entirely blame him. He's not even sure he can remember meeting Harry more than a few times. Certainly not past the age of six or seven. Jenni and Stephen aren't religious, so there hadn't even been the necessity of a ceremony to stick in the mind. He remembers, if he's honest with himself, Jessica more-a sharp-faced, sharp-eyed little girl who, apart from occasionally lobbing a dart-tipped question at him on the rare occasions he went round for dinner, was happy to leave him alone. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the last Ed heard, she was working for the _Evening Standard._

"Just-" Rachel takes a deep breath. "Casual. Remember? Like you haven't thought twice about it."

Ed runs over the words they've rehearsed over seven times on the train and nods.

A few minutes later, they're surrounded by a small group-four reporters at the most, standing on a street corner. It couldn't be more of a local press doorstep.

"I have only just been catching up with it-I think Justine would probably say she wishes I'd spend _more_ time in the kitchen-"

Rachel gives him a thumbs-up surreptitiously, hand almost disappearing into her leather jacket.

"But your house does have two kitchens, Mr Miliband?"

Ed says the words they've rehearsed slowly, carefully. "The house we bought had a kitchen downstairs when we bought it" he says, trying not to rush this, looking at each of them in turn, trying to keep it casual. "And it is not the one we use. We use the small one upstairs."

"But then, why were you filmed in the smaller kitchen?" One woman arches an eyebrow at him. "Surely you can see that looks as though you've tried to-well, for want of a better phrase, mislead the public?"

Ed swallows, his shirt suddenly sticking damply to his back.

"This is the kitchen Justine and I use" he says, very carefully, painfully aware of Rachel's gaze on his back, his neck prickling. "So obviously, that was the one we suggested for filming."

"It's caught the public imagination, though, hasn't it?" One reporter's mouth twitches in something close to a smirk. "I mean, your kitchen really wasn't what you wanted to come out of the first time you opened your home up to the cameras, was it?"

Ed manages to force a laugh. It scrapes out of his chest, hollow.

"To tell you the truth-" His tongue pushes against his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "I'm actually quite surprised at the amount of-ink being spilled over my kitchen, to be honest-"

Rachel's gone still, but then she nods, very slightly.

"I think what voters in this election really want to talk about are the issues of living standards, of the cost of living crisis, of the huge unfairnesses of this Tory government-and I think my kitchen-" He shrugs. "They don't really care about it."

He looks into the reporter's eyes, forces himself to meet his gaze, his own chin tilted up defiantly. It's a good thing Ed can't see himself-otherwise, he might say the gesture looks a little like Cameron.

Rachel's lip is caught between her teeth when they move away from the gaggle of reporters a few moments later, but her shoulders sink very slightly as she meets Ed's eyes. "Well, it couldn't have gone better" she says, in a much flatter tone than those words usually inspire, but she gives Ed's arm a squeeze. Ed lets her, breathing out, more relieved than he realised.

He toes the pavement as they walk, chewing the words in his mouth. "I-remember, Justine and I have-I have to be back by-"

"I know."

"We've got that-thing-about-at Daniel's school-" Even saying the words feels wrong, as though they're dragging the whole thing roughly into the sunlight.

"I know." Rachel's tone is measured, level, which Ed is grateful for. Tom glances at him, opens his mouth, then seems to change his mind.

It's a decision that doesn't last.

Ed gets into the car, closes the door behind him, and then promptly nearly loses his hearing as Tom bellows "Oh, _FOR FUCK'S SAKE."_

Ed claps a hand to his possibly perforated eardrum.

"Jesus Christ, _what?"_ Rachel, wedged in between them, hits Tom on the shoulder, causing him to shove her back. Rachel grabs his phone, pushing her hair behind her ears as she squints at the screen. Tom turns to the window and says something almost unrepeatable, making even Rachel's eyebrows raise.

She says something similar herself, a moment later. Ed watches her, his own eyes widening. "What?" he asks, a feeling of cold dread gripping his insides. "What is it?"

Rachel leans her forehead on her hand for a long moment, her eyes squeezing shut, as though in great pain. _"Ed Miliband doesn't have two kitchens-"_ she recites, each word slow and laboured, the phone held out in front of her, the soon-to-be-published headline staring up at them innocuously, as Tom's fist comes close to pounding against the glass, and Rachel says the next words, slowly, hatingly. _"One is for the live-in nanny."_

* * *

"Daniel's definitely very bright" Jenn says to them, as though that makes it better. "He shows a lot of ability, especially in mathematics. His written addition is already quite advanced for the Infants."

Justine tries to relax her jaw, feeling her lips pressing together tightly. Her hands are pressed together in her lap, and she forces herself to loosen them, her heart beating uncomfortably fast.

"But there are some concerns, aren't there?" she presses, so that she can be the one to say it, not one of them, Jenn and Polly, with their concerned expressions, and chairs that are too small, pressing into Justine's back. Not them, whose lesson plans Justine has to sign off on, who she's previously called in front of her to show them the new SEN provision details she and another governor had worked out together, that they wanted them to sign, with _wanted_ being a subtle nudge for _needed._

Not them, now, with her and Ed sitting in front of them like they were any other parents.

"With Daniel?" She forces herself to say his name slowly, her voice not too tight.

Polly and Jenn glance at each other. Justine has to bite her lip, counting to ten slowly in her head, to not tell them to not look at each other like that, like she doesn't know that's why they're here. To be told that there's a problem. They've produced a child with a problem and sent him into school, and now he's a problem.

Ed's too quiet next to her. He arrived after she did, so Justine didn't get the chance to go through with him what was probably going to happen, what they should say. Ed doesn't go to many of the school events. He's probably been to more in the last couple of months than he has since Daniel started at Brookfield.

"It's important that you remember there's probably nothing to be concerned about" says Polly, and her tone's too gentle, and it makes Justine want to scream, as does Ed's uncertain little "Right" next to her. Like he doesn't see, that all of this is Polly and Jenn telling them something is wrong. _There is something wrong with your child. You have done something wrong._

"We've just noticed that Daniel has been acting out a little more recently" Jenn says, sitting up slightly. "His behaviour this week has been better, and his social interaction is still good, but we've noticed that there are times his attention seems to flag. And there've been the couple of incidents you already know about, refusing to engage with his schoolwork."

"I did some research into ADHD" Justine interjects, needing to let them know that they're not the sort of simple-minded, wide-eyed parents who need to be _told_ that that's a possibility, that they're the kind of parents who know what the problem could be. The kind of parents who can present them with a solution, who'll tell them how to manage their child and be right. "How early the symptoms present. It doesn't explain all of it, but it does fit some of the symptoms, doesn't it? The-the excess energy-that could be what the-the incident with the pencil case was, couldn't-and the lack of attention-"

Polly and Jenn are exchanging glances again. Justine glances at Ed. She should have taken his hand, she thinks, but it's too late now, and in any case, Ed's fingers are tapping back and forth, his gaze fixed on the floor, lip caught between his teeth. She feels a wave of irritation crumple in her chest.

"It's a possibility" Polly says slowly, making Justine's heart lift oddly, for a second. There could be a reason. She's read about cases of ADHD hundreds of times, while she's been a governor. It's simple enough. Take Daniel to a doctor, see which kind of medication will work. Maybe find some exercises to improve his focusing, have Zia take a look at his diet. The steps are laid out before her, like the keys her fingers can find without seeing.

"But we really don't think there's any need to worry about that at this stage" Jenn says, a little more briskly, deflating the bubble of certainty that had started to grow for Justine "We were more wondering if we could put our heads together and see if anything could more be _triggering_ Daniel's behaviour." Jenn looks at Ed, this time. "We know it must be a stressful time for you. Children pick up on that sort of thing."

For some reason, Ed's face colours, then pales, his teeth digging into his lip harder. Justine frowns, willing him to say something, say the right thing.

"It's-look, it's difficult" she says, breezily, when it becomes clear Ed isn't going to. "But the boys are very involved with it all. They know what's going on. We've had lots of talks about it, so anything-anything they're unsure about, we explain to them." She shrugs slightly, trying to make them see that this is all thought of, they've done all this. They've done what they were supposed to with the children. "They understand what's going on."

Jenn and Polly exchange another glance.

"We were more thinking-" Jenn pauses, as if searching for the words. "Daniel's behaviour-well, the incident with the pencil case-that was after the Curriculum Meeting where there was the opportunity to see the children afterwards and-"

"I didn't know" Ed says, too quickly, as though he's a child about to be told off-Justine feels a stab of irritation at the sound. "That was-we cleared that up with him, didn't we?" He looks at her, as though for help. "We filled it in-the worksheet that was sent home-"

Justine's saved from answering, when Jenn says, "But we noticed that that seemed to upset Daniel, you not being there. And, I noticed on his Reading Record-we check them each Tuesday, to make sure their reading's been done-"

"I know" Justine interrupts before she can stop herself, the words rising indignantly in her chest-she helped devise how often to check the Reading Records. She checks what the most educational books are for Daniel's age, and Sam's too. She knows all of that.

"But we noticed that quite a lot of the time, it's Zia who's filled it in" Jenn says gently.

"Your nanny" Polly says, as though Justine doesn't know.

Justine waits, looking from one to the other.

"Sometimes I have to work in the evenings" she says, waiting for them to understand. "It can mean the boys need to be in bed before I'd be free to do that."*

"We've noticed-" Polly glances at Jenn, who says "We've noticed Zia comes to a lot of the school events. The last PAC session, for example."

Ed glances at her. "PAC?"

"Parents And Carers Maths." Justine's voice is almost a snap.

"Yeah." Jenn gives Ed a softer look-almost sympathetic. "And we just wondered if maybe, Daniel could benefit from a little more one-on-one time. With children with parents who work a lot, that can be wonderful. Even just ten minutes a day, listening to them read, when they feel they have your undivided attention-"

Justine blinks.

"We make sure he has that" she says, a little too loudly. "On the weekends, we often spend time with them." She gropes for all the easy answers that come to her-that she'll be asked about in the next few weeks. "We go, we take them to the park, to cafes-we've been talking a lot about the election, we-they have lots of interaction."

Polly almost flinches but it's gone before Justine can look at her.

"We just wondered-" Jenn says gently, but Justine can barely hear her over the roaring of the words in her ears. _You're women. You have careers. This is what we are meant to do. You've got to have something outside them._

_You've got to have something._

She nods at whatever Jenn's saying, as though she can hear it at all.

* * *

"I was thinking" Justine says, once she and Ed are out of the school gates, walking faster, harder, as she tries to get her thoughts in order. "Tim was saying they were having a bit of a childcare issue, with Milly."

Ed's head jerks slightly, as though trying to grab hold of the words. "Who?"

"Milly. She's in Sam's nursery class." Justine tries not to sound impatient. "You know UCL have been asking me about teaching a course next year? Tim already works there-I think he's a professor, actually."

Ed shakes his head slightly. "I-oh, right, right. Th-so-"

"Well, they're having a bit of a childcare issue with Milly." Justine pushes her hands deeper into her pockets. "You know, with her mum being back at work and their nanny just had to leave for-personal issues or something like that. Anyway, I said we'd ask Zia if she could take Milly."

Ed stops dead. "You mean-did you athk Zia?"

Justine shakes her head. "We'll pay her extra, of course. Tim already offered to pay. And it'll be some-"

She glances inadvertently back at the school. "Some company for Sam and Daniel, when we're on the campaign trail."

Ed's chewing his lip, eyes darting back and forth. Justine tries to reign in her impatience, waiting for him to catch up to the point.

"Are you th-sure he'll be all right?" Ed says eventually, slowly. "With uth on the campaign trail?"

Justine takes a deep breath, running over the plan in her head, that she's been laying out ever since they got out of the building. "We'll explain it to him" she says, confidently, taking Ed's hand, tugging it slightly out of his pocket. "We'll make sure we talk to him about it every night, or that Zia does. And then he'll feel more involved."

Ed looks unconvinced.

"He probably just doesn't understand it yet" Justine presses. "That's our fault, but we can fix that now. We can make him feel involved. And then he won't feel the need to act out, once he understands."

Ed still looks doubtful, so she squeezes his hand. "It will be exciting for them, having someone new around after school. If we explain things to them, they'll understand." She nods to herself, reassuring herself of the words. If they can just make them understand-

Ed looks at her. "That's what you said-"

Justine glances at him. "What?"

Ed holds her gaze for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Never mind" he says, and to Justine, it sounds like agreement.

* * *

The skyline of London falls away beneath them on the other side of the window, as Patrick steps up to the other side of the table.

Alex is already there. Alex was always already there.

"Patrick-" Alex stands up, extends his hand. His handshake's as strong as it ever was, back when he was in Pop and he strode off the stage after the school play every year, the other boys slapping his back.

Patrick squeezes his hand very slightly as he shakes it back, meets his gaze. Alex gestures to the table, and Patrick sits, taking in the man in front of him, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy shining behind his eyes.

"I don't think I need to ask how your work's going, do I?" Alex asks, with that grin that irritates in Patrick's chest, dredging out a grudging admiration. Aside from the shock of white hair and the few lines of age that come to all of them, it's all the same-the grin, the freckles, the relaxed air. The way he takes up space as he leans back, as though it's his right. The way he suggested Oblix, without even the question of whether it was affordable.

The fact he knew he didn't even have to ask if that would be a problem for Patrick.

"You're a QC" Patrick says, without needing it to be a question. Alex nods, proudly.

"Doing well, I hear."

"You could say that." Alex gives him that grin. "My little brother's more well-known."

Patrick watches him for a moment. "Do you remember when you got into Pop?" he says conversationally. "David never did."

Alex's mouth twitches in a grin. "Are you saying that's what drove my little brother to become Prime Minister?"

Patrick shrugs, remembering suddenly a day when a few of Eton's Old Boys had come back to visit, the entire school being crowded into the chapel, one of the beaks tugging at the door handle, being unable to open it, and about fifteen minutes of collective hysteria later, the door being opened from outside by a young, handsome, carefree-looking man surrounded by a bunch of other young, handsome, carefree-looking men, all in various states of hysteria, and Patrick, standing with some of the others, knowing without looking who the ringleader would be, just as he'd known it wouldn't have been Alex who would have opened the door.

* * *

"Your dad chose Arthur" Sam explains, as she counts the heads of the crowd of small boys around her, huddled under the wooden roof, trying to save the protection officers a job. "I chose Elwen."

"How come Arthur went first?" Elwen asks, tugging at his jumper-Sam had reminded the other boys' parents about five times to make sure they were wearing old clothes.

"Elwen Arthur didn't sound as good" Sam says, honestly. "Plus we knew we were going to call you Elwen, anyway-that way your dad still got his choice in."

Felix blinks up at her. "I think my mum named me after Felix the Cat."

Samantha considers this, patting Will's head as the last of her count. "There are worse things to be named after" she advises him. "My middle name's Gwendoline."

Will's nose crinkles. "Like the girl in Malory Towers?"

Samantha nods. "I mean, I always thought she got a raw deal. But no, after an ancestor , I think."*

Elwen glances up at her. "If you hated it, why's it Nancy's middle name?"

"It sounded nicer with Nancy. And your dad liked calling her Nancy Gwen, when she was little."

"Is that why you gave her Beatrice as well?"

"Yeah." Sam leans on the counter, as they wait for the receptionist to work her way through the bookings, tapping Gabriel's shoulder to get him back into line. "And, your sister had already arrived, so we thought it would be a bit weird to have two Beatrices."

William gives an odd shudder at the thought.

"Plus, Nancy Astor. She was the first female MP, and she's my stepdad's family-so-" Sam explains, handing over their booking information. "It seemed a good omen."

It's not entirely a conversation she might have expected to have with a group of small boys she's taking paintballing, but then again, Elwen's rarely been embarrassed to have her around in front of his friends. His is a sunny, cheerful little nature, and always has been-Sam wonders sometimes if it comes from being a third child-Dave's also the third of four, and of all of their children, Elwen seems to have inherited that part of his nature most strongly. If Nancy's inherited the side of Dave that loves arguments, his determination and jut of the chin, Elwen's inherited the one that seeks consensus, to calm waters before they grow choppy.

She glances over her son's head at the two protection officers standing by the entrance of the small array of wooden lodges, and feels all the more thankful for this, as well as the fact that it's only Elwen's ninth birthday, when he and his friends are still a little too young to notice.

* * *

"Nance, for the fifth time, I can't make the BBC hire Jeremy back if they chuck him." Dad tugs Florence's leg, getting her to stop squirming about on his shoulders. "It's not my fault he's gone and-punched some poor bloke in the noggin."

"Won't there be a petition or something?" Bea is examining her reflection in her phone camera, tugging down her white red-flower-patterned crop top ("You'll freeze in that" Auntie Sarah had said, before making her put on a black vest underneath-Bea had raged about it for the first fifteen minutes of the car journey.)

"If that thing hits ten thousand signatures, there is no way we are debating it in the House Of Commons" Dad says flatly.

"You have to" Nancy tells him, tugging her denim jacket more closely around her and hoisting her Nancy bag higher on her shoulder. "It's the law."

"It's a recommendation, Nance."

"Jeremy's your _friend."_ Nancy jerks her chin up at him as they turn into the atrium. "And we don't _know_ what happened."

"Sorry, Nance, I'm just finding it hard to conceive of a situation where your fist accidentally flies into someone's face."

Nancy blinks up at him. "We could try it right now."

Florence tugs at Dad's mouth, making him gently tug her hand away. "Careful, Flo, I don't want to drop you-"

It's not often that they stay in London for the weekend-usually, they either go to Dean or Chequers. But Elwen's going paintballing with his friends for his birthday this weekend, and Will was one of the ones invited. Mum's taken them, so Dad said he'd take Nancy, Bea and Liberty to Westfields for the afternoon, with Flo tagging along.

"Are we going to the food court after?" Liberty asks, turning her phone round to snap a photograph of Flo, whose hands open happily. Nancy eyes her jealously. Her own iPod Touch fills up with pictures too easily.

"After." Dad squeezes Flo's knees, making her kick happily. "I've got to see if John Lewis have got a canopy for Flo first-"

_"Pink-"_ Flo's won the battle she's been waging ever since she saw Nancy's canopy.

"We've got that noted, Flo-"

"Can't we go to H&M?" Bea tugs at Dad's hand, throwing one arm around Liberty's and then Nancy's shoulders, pulling them into her for her phone camera. "We wanted to look at the jeans."

Nancy glances at the protection officer, walking a foot away from them.

Dad does, too. "I don't know, I'll have to check."

"Check what?" Bea glances over Nancy's shoulder at the protection officer. "Oh-"

Nancy rolls her eyes. "Dad, we're going to _H &M."_

"I'm going to John Lewis, but I don't get away-Bea, are you live-streaming that to somebody?"

Bea shakes her head. "It's for my Insta story." She pulls Liberty and Nancy in again, their cheeks pressed together like squirrels, and squeezes them both, all three of them grinning like monkeys, before the moment's captured forever.

* * *

"So how are Georgia and Joe?"

Patrick isn't surprised Alex knows their names without having to ask.

"They're doing well." He takes a sip of his. "Georgia's in her first GCSE year, Year 10-Joe's in Year 8."

"Same school?"

"Waldegrave and Teddington." Patrick can't resist adding "Both comprehensives."

Alex's smile twitches slightly. "That a decree from your boss?"

"No." Patrick tries not to snap it out.

Alex just smiles. Patrick can see, grudgingly, why he's a good lawyer, the need to justify himself clawing up through his chest.

"What about yours'?" he forces himself to ask. "Imogen and Angus?"

"Imo's finished at Newcastle" Alex says, easily, and Patrick doesn't know if he minds that or not. "Did English-she's now, messing about a bit. Gus started at Bristol in September. Philosophy."

"Where you went?"

"Yes. Not Eton, though."

Patrick wrestles with it for a moment, but begrudgingly asks, "Where did they go?"

"Imo went to Downe House, when she was eleven. Gus went to Radley." Alex says it easily, as though it's neither a good thing nor a bad. Or just something not to be noticed.

"I see."

Alex's smile, suddenly, could be his younger brother's. "Is there a stipulation coming in the next manifesto that private schools are going to be drummed out of existence?"

Patrick looks back at him. "I think Ed" he says, with an effort to keep his tone light. "Has made his opinion on private schools pretty clear."

"At least something's been made clear."

"What?"

Alex arches an eyebrow, looking more like his brother than ever. "What exactly is the problem with your boss?"

Patrick looks him in the eye. "It's not with my boss" he says slowly, holding Alex's gaze and this time, not letting himself look away. "It's with my boss and your brother."

* * *

"In here would probably be best to do the more personal stuff" Tom muses, looking around the living room, speaking over Daniel's head, where he's crouched on the carpet, watching the Octonauts. Marion is perched on the sofa, Sam on her knee. "That'll be more-"

"Do you want me to be there for that or-"

Tom considers, head tilted to one side. "Nah, it'll probably be better if we get that just one-on-one. We don't know what Cameron and Clegg are doing, and it'll look odd if one person has their wife-"

"We don't want it to look like we're relying on you too much" Rachel explains, from the French doors, where she's examined the dining room and deemed it acceptable for the mealtime filming-"We've got to draw a line. Making sure that the two kitchens thing goes away, but not seeming to refuse to acknowledge it, addressing some of the criticisms". She leans on the back of the armchair, tucking her bob behind her ears. "It's about getting the balance right."

Justine glances from one to the other. "I thought it was about-presenting the whole-the whole team image sort of thing-"

"It is" Tom says, contemplatively, eyeing the boys momentarily, before he turns back to Justine. "But we don't want to go too far. There's always a fine balance between the public wanting to see the wives and thinking we rely too much on them."

The words _the wives_ stick in Justine's throat a little, but she swallows it down.

"Now, we just need to have a look at the boys' clothes that they'll be wearing" Rachel says briskly. "Probably the best is to have them wear similar to what they wore last time-"

"Yes-" Justine had already got Zia to wash the same outfits the boys wore last time, to lay them out ready, for when they'll get the boys up early tomorrow, ready for the filming.

"Have you-er-told them about-"

"Yes." Justine gives Sam a bright smile-Daniel's gaze is fixed resolutely on the TV screen. "You're looking forward to the cameras being back, aren't you, boys?"

Sam makes an incoherent, angry little sound and buries his face in Marion's chest. Daniel doesn't look away from the TV.

Justine gives Tom a grin. "I think that's your-I think the Octonauts are a bit more captivating-"

A flicker of something crosses Tom's face, but it's gone in an instant.

"Listen-" He glances at Marion, but then steps closer to Justine, lowering his voice. "The David thing-Tom's going to bring that up, that's going to be one-on-one-"

Justine frowns. "Isn't that something-wouldn't it be better to have that in a family setting? Isn't that-"

Tom glances at Rachel. Justine does too, realising with a jolt that they've talked about this, discussed it already.

"The thing is-" Tom lowers his voice. "The situation with-Louise. That still lingers. It might-and not many people have any blame towards you, but why risk it?"

Justine feels herself go still, just for a second. It could be five years ago, Ed's hand in hers as she tugged him back to their hotel room, trying to sort out her thoughts, calm her breathing, resenting suddenly, bitterly, the heaviness of her pregnant bump as she tried to tidy the words she needed to help him lay out the path ahead, away from David and Louise behind them.

"I see" she says, because she needs to consider this, carefully. "I see."

Tom watches her, tentatively. "We don't want the David thing to hang over all of this" he says, a little more gently. Rachel nods, her eyes sharper, watching Justine closely. "It's just about trying to keep our focus on the issues."

For a moment, Justine's sure Marion is watching them, but when she glances over at her, she's chatting to Sam, pressing a kiss into his curls.

"No, of course." Justine's voice is brighter now. "Of course."

Tom steps back, looking a little relieved. "OK. Well-we were thinking, that we might put some of the Mother's Day stuff-the boys' cards and things-we'll need to have them out on the table-"

Justine had almost forgotten tomorrow is Mother's Day. "Yeah. They-Zia said they made some little things at school, that-I'll ask her to get them out, I think she took them downstairs when she picked them up-"

Again, an expression flickers across Tom's face, but it's gone before Justine can grab a hold of it.

"Sounds good" Rachel interjects a little too quickly. "Shall I-is she-"

"Yeah, yeah, she'll be just-in her flat-" Zia usually doesn't work on weekends, but given the campaign, she's doing some extra hours at the moment.

"Will she be around-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah-and Marion, hopefully, as well-" Justine throws her a smile, getting a small one in return.

As Tom checks his mobile phone and Rachel heads to the hallway, Justine gives Marion another, brighter smile. "I bet you remember things like this when the boys were kids, don't you?"

Marion looks back at her then. Whatever smile she'd been wearing has disappeared, and she watches Justine for a long moment, her eyes sharpening.

"Not really" she says, and she turns back to the screen, pulling Sam further back onto her knee, Daniel still watching it as though his mother isn't in the room at all, leaving Justine standing there, watching them.

* * *

"I sound like a North London twat from an over-privileged background" says Ed, flatly, looking at the monitor.

Ayesha squeezes his arm loyally. "No, you don't."

Ed stares at the monitor again. On the small screen, his own, smaller self, is leaning on one elbow on the makeshift lectern they've set up. "I will happily play-th-sorry, _pay_ the mansion tax-"

Ed cringes at the nasal twinge to his own voice.

"Out of my own earningth-the question is whether David Cameron is prepared to do the th-same-"

"Yeah" Ed says flatly. "I do."

Ayesha nestles her chin on his shoulder. Stewart gives Ed's arm a bracing squeeze. "It'll be fine. Your arguments are strong-and the two Mikes think the elbow's a good thing, it makes you look casual-"

"You're only noticing it because you're scrutinising yourself" Jill says, firmly, sliding her hand through his elbow. "Nobody else would even think about it."

Ed tilts his head, taking in the screen again. "Really?"

Jill squeezes his hand. "Yeah."

Jill's like a constant injection of sunshine. Literally-her bright, bright blonde hair tickles Ed's cheek as she leans against him. It's as bright as Rachel's, but while Rachel's is permanently straightened, angled into an almost severe bob, Jill's bounces happily around her face, even when she's pulled it up in a topknot, wavy strands escaping.

Jill herself bounces too-literally. While Rachel's skinny, almost angular, with the sharp jut of her chin and her arched eyebrows, Jill's cuddly, bubbly, with her eyes permanently creased in a happy grin. Whenever Jill gives him a hug, Ed feels like he can breathe a little.

Jill's Ed's personal assistant, loves Harry Styles, and Ed's already worried about how to keep her on if he becomes Prime Minister.

"Just remember what Stan said" Stewart instructs him, with a clap on the back. _"Government that works for working people._ Run it through like a stick of rock."

Ed nods. "Right."

"We've just got to work out-" Ayesha says, with a squeeze to the arm. "What should be the Farage moment."

Stewart sucks in his breath. "And we've got to make sure Cameron doesn't get in ahead of us with that."

"You're sure he won't consider a pact with Farage?" Torsten asks, from where he's carefully manoeuvreing a lectern back into place. "He is offering a referendum-"

"No" Ed says, almost before he can stop himself. When Ayesha glances at him, he shakes his head a little. "I mean-Cameron hates Farage almost as much as we do. He's hated him since they appeared on Question Time together."

"Really?" Stewart shrugs. "Didn't know that."

Ed feels his cheeks heat slightly. He's not entirely sure how he knows that-when Cameron told him so. But he knows it, remembers Cameron telling him how he used to nick cigarettes off Farage backstage to wind him up. Remembers himself laughing.

Ed mentally shoves Cameron back into his box, forcing himself to look at the lecterns, dragging his thoughts away from anything about Cameron other than as a collection of arguments he needs to beat.

They're standing in the barn. A literal barn-they're nestled deep in the grounds of some towering mansion down in Kent. Ed had balked at the thought originally.

"We're talking about a manthion tax" he'd worried to Torsten in the car earlier that day, mind still buzzing from the Birmingham rally he'd just appeared at, unveiling their pledges. "It hardly lookth good, uth driving off to a massive mansion."

"No-one will know." Torsten had patted his arm, still typing away on his laptop. "It's not like there are going to be cameras waiting or something."

There hadn't been, but it had still felt slightly less hypocritical to discover they were filming in the barn at the back rather than inside the building. Knowing that it belongs to Waheed, a Labour donor, just makes Ed even more thankful the press weren't there to capture their arrival.

Now, just as he's studying the seven lecterns, arranged in a slight semi-circle, mimicking the order they'll be in on the night of the debate in just under three weeks' time, he's pulled out of his thoughts by the door being flung open and a familiar voice filling the barn. "We've got Kez."

Ed turns round, blinking, as Alastair strides towards him, clapping him on the arm so hard Ed's pretty sure he's left a bruise. "What?"

"Kez." Alastair flings down a box of Krispy Kremes. "I come bearing gifts. _Kez."_ When Ed blinks, Alastair rolls his eyes. "She's the fucking leader of your Scottish party, Ed, for Christ's sake, don't do that in the debates."

"Oh. Kez." Ed blinks, determined not to be caught out again. "And-what do you mean, you've got her?"

"To play Sturgeon." Alastair rips open the box of Krispy Kreme and bites into a doughnut covered in coloured sprinkles as though he hasn't seen food in a month. "Might as well have you up against an actual Scot, so we don't wear Ayesha out."

"We didn't know you were coming" Ayesha says, with a slight frown at Jill.

"No, well, neither did anyone" Alastair says, still chewing. "Except for Stewart-"

Stewart looks vaguely terrified at the mention of his name.

"Where's Rachel?"

"With Justine." Ed cautiously examines the doughnuts, waiting until he's sure no one else is going to select it before he reaches for a pink-iced one. "They're at home-there's a-the ITV thing tomorrow-"

"Oh, right." Alastair nods through a mouthful of doughnut. "Right, right-how are the rehearsals going?"

"Good" Jill says, with bright, determined loyalty, but it's Stewart who says "We've nailed a couple of the key arguments. And we're just trying to deal with the mansion tax thing-any champagne socialism arguments-"

"Good." Alastair nods, eyes lingering on Ed. "I was watching the playback with the American lot a few minutes ago. You did well."

Ed swells with pride. He manages a nod and then heads off towards the other Tom to confer with him on the next question to rehearse, a new spring in his step.

* * *

Alastair swallows his mouthful of doughnut and then turns to Ayesha. "OK, I hope to fuck the rest of you have all been more honest with him than I have, because that was fucking atrocious."

Jill practically spits venom from her eyes. Ayesha gives him a reproachful look. "He's trying."

"He's very fucking trying." Alastair tears into another doughnut. Ayesha eyes him resentfully. "You haven't finished that one yet."

"Sorry, who managed to get Kezia fucking Dugdale to agree to drag herself down here next weekend and practice with you?"

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"It means it was me, so shut your yap." Alastair takes another bite. "Trying isn't enough. He's trying to win a fucking election. He shouldn't be _trying_ to manage a fucking TV debate."

"You're being a bit hard on him" says Stewart faintly, eyeing Alastair's jaw with some apprehension.

"You _should_ be being harder on him" Alastair says, munching. "Because the public's going to be very fucking harder on him."

"We've been pulling ahead in the polls" Ayesha argues.

"And not on personal leadership ratings" Alastair says, looking her straight in the eye. "If I find out who planted that thing about the fucking nanny, I'll have them up on a model of the fucking rose."

"Ed just needs the chance to show himself in the campaign."

Alastair sighs. "Look, Ayesha, you're a nice girl, but you've got to help him win a fucking election here."

"I know."

Alastair raises his eyebrows. "Have you ever done that before?"

Ayesha's cheeks pinken. She turns around and marches away, hair escaping from the grip at the back.

Alastair watches her go, still chewing. It's moments like this he misses Philip. Like John, Philip knew the right way to say things like this. Philip, with a push of the glasses up his nose and his way of unscrambling focus group data and poll findings into simple, justifiable talk, that a leader could bloody make sense of.

This will be the first election Alastair's fought without Philip.

"What did you say to Ayesha?" Alastair turns to see Ed coming towards him, looking harassed, big dark eyes staring at him earnestly. "She looked upthet."

Alastair looks him over, the mess of his hair and the big accusatory dark eyes, and feels a mixture of pity and exasperation.

"Nothing" he says, knowing Ayesha won't give him away. "Just had a disagreement on how to handle something, that's all."

Ed's eyes narrow. Alastair changes the subject. "How's Tom handling the nanny stuff?"

Ed's cheeks colour. "He's juthst th-saying to keep the media off it."

Alastair nods. "Good. Because if they get one more fucking sniff of it, they're going to go nuclear. Have you seen the headlines?"

Ed straightens himself up with what seems to be an attempt at dignity. "They say it'th not good for us to read the headlines. It'th discouraging." He reminds Alastair of a kid who's just been elected to the school council.

He sighs. "Ed, the nanny was a fucking misfire. You're going to have to fucking use that interview tomorrow." A sudden thought strikes him. "Please say it's not going to be in that fucking kitchen."

Ed's blush tells him all he needs to know.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ."

"Torsten suggested it" Ed argues, keeping his chin jutted up defiantly-it reminds Alastair of someone, though he can't think who. "He says it will help uth to diffuse it straight away. If the media th-see it's not nettling uth, they'll move on."

Alastair very narrowly resists the urge to scream.

"Ed" he says, summoning what he congratulates himself is an immense reserve of patience. "The media aren't like that. They'll go on the kitchen for fucking days. You could fucking fellate Tom on camera and they'd still be talking about the kitchen."

Up until now, Ed had looked sulky, toeing the floor like a schoolboy; now he blushes so deeply and so suddenly, that the effect's rather like a set of traffic lights. Alastair frowns, but Ed just avoids his gaze.

"Look-" he says, when Ed doesn't look back at him, making a mental note to come back to this. "If you've already fucking decided this, you're going to have to-Jesus, if you pull out now, it's just going to make it even more of a story." He's just remembered the ending section of the Telegraph article-the papers would have a fucking field day, and it would be more of an excuse to keep running it. "Look, what you're going to have to do, you're going to have to tell Bradby that it's no big deal. Make a joke of it."

"They've already filmed in Clegg's kitchen" Ed argues. "And Cameron's."

His blush deepens. Alastair eyes him, hackles rising.

"Yeah, well. We're going to have to just try and knock it down. Because it's going to be fucking hard to be knocking Cameron for being an Old fucking Etonian Bullingdon Boy when you've got two kitchens, a £2m house, and a fucking _live-in nanny."_

Ed, if possible, is blushing even deeper. "Are we going to-" He coughs, clears his throat. "The Eton thing. We're going to bring that up, then?"

Alastair blinks. "I'm going to assume that that was a very fucking misguided attempt at humour."

"I just meant-" Ed clears his throat, looking as though he might combust. "You know. Won't that-turn off a portion of the electorate?"

Alastair blinks again. "Do you mean the less than 3000 people who send their kids to fucking Hogwarts?"

"No." Ed clears his throat, coughs. Looks away again. "I mean-well. More might have tried to get in."

"Sorry, am I hearing you correctly?" Alastair steps closer to him. "You, who've called him everything but the boy from the Bullingdon Club to a large fucking _poultry_ during PMQs are questioning the wisdom of doing _the Eton thing?"_

Ed looks as though he's wishing he could sink through the floor. "No."

Alastair stares at him, taking in the way Ed's eyes aren't meeting his own. If Ed had stayed quiet, he might have left it there. But-

"It'th juth-st-"

Alastair stops dead. He stares at him, waiting for Ed to elaborate.

"It'th jutht-" Ed's blushing, the lisp making its' way full-force into the words. "You know-for th-some people, boarding th-school ithn't really a privilege."

Alastair very nearly chokes to death right there and then. "It _what?"_

"It-juth-st-you know, it-" Ed's looking as though he's wishing he'd never brought the topic up. "It-people don't have a-choithe where they go to th-th-th-school-and th-some of them don't-really-like it. Do they?"

He stares at the floor, as though praying it will open up beneath him.

Alastair takes in a deep breath. "Sorry, did you just say _some of them don't really like it?"_

"I-no, I-"

"Have you _seen_ these places?" Alastair lowers his voice, glancing around so that he doesn't alert every other member of the team that their leader's suffering a displacement from reality. "They're like fucking-Jesus, they're like fucking _holiday homes_. Holiday centres. Swimming pools, tennis courts-fuck, I remember taking Rory to fucking Stowe for his running and the fucking facilities-" He has to bite down on his lip to prevent the word from rising to a yell. "And that's nothing. The fucking teaching is world-class. The access they get to people some people in the fucking _Cabinet_ would kill to have."

Ed is silent, staring at the ground.

"The fucking preparation they get for interviews, for university-Jesus, they don't have a fucking choice? Do you think people have a fucking choice to go to the local sinkhouse comp? Do you think people have a choice to be born fucking poor-Jesus, how am I fucking _explaining_ this to you, you're the fucking _Labour leader_ , for Christ's sake-"

Alastair glances around, sees the others' gazes moving in their direction. He grabs Ed's arm and half-drags him towards the door.

"Right" he says, once he's got Ed leaning against the barn wall outside, looking heartily miserable. "Tell me what's got you turning from Daddy's Little Leftie into Toby fucking Young."

Ed folds his arms across his chest, ducks his head a little lower. "It juthst-"

Alastair waits. "Yeah?"

For a moment, he thinks Ed's seen sense, but then Ed rallies slightly. "I juth-t think-we might put people off a bit. That'th all."

For a few seconds, Alastair's grasp on reality seriously flails.

"Jesus Christ, if this is what a conversation with Gordon does these days, I'm going to lock him away for this whole fucking campaign" he says, half to himself.

Ed's eyebrows furrow. "Gordon?"

It's right then that Alastair realises that he said that aloud.

"What'th Gordon got to-" Ed stares at him, lip quirking ominously. "Wait-you mean-when Gordon phoned me when I was-"

The blush, which had been fading, returns with sudden vehemence, but Alastair doesn't have time to wonder about that. Ed's staring at him, brows knitting together under his dark hair. "You-you-you knew about that? About him phoning me-did, did you tell him to? To phone me-you-"

Alastair has a split second to decide whether or not he's just given something away to Miliband or whether he's given himself something to use as an advantage.

He seizes the latter.

"Yeah, Gordon" he says, affecting a casual air. "You know, Tony and I thought it would be a good idea for him to ring you. Check you weren't getting distracted."

Ed's scarlet now, but his dark gaze is still fixed on Alastair's, brighter by the second. "Dithtracted?"

"Yeah." Alastair chooses his words as carefully as he can for someone who's thinking on his feet. "Craig and I had a talk and, well-it's mutually beneficial for us to make sure our candidates are both free of any distraction."

"Craig?" Something shutters in Ed's eyes-Alastair almost feels it, the clicking into place. "Cameron'th Craig?"

There's something oddly raw in the words.

"Yeah." Alastair keeps his voice as casual as possible, in contrast to the almost yell his voice had risen to a few moments before. "You know-just wanted to make sure no one was getting carried away. Remembering who the opponents are. All that kind of thing."

He doesn't watch Ed after those words. He doesn't need to. He can feel his brain working, putting the pieces together. Imagining Cameron's spin doctor having a chat with Alastair. Imagining him having a chat with Cameron.

It doesn't have to make sense. Just put a grain of suspicion there. Enough to fire him up. Enough to remind him why he's fighting Cameron in the first place.

"Come on" Alastair says, once he's judged enough time has gone by. "Otherwise they'll think you've got me into fucking smoking, and you don't want that on your conscience."

He gives Ed a hearty slap on the back, holding a hand up in apology as Ed winces. They both turn back to the barn entrance, Alastair slightly impressed with his own ingenuity, Ed wandering slightly behind him, eyes fixed on the ground, downcast, lost in thought.

* * *

Alex leans back in his chair, his face inscrutable. "So." He looks straight at Patrick, one eyebrow arching very slightly. "You think Dave's spending too much time with your boss."

"With Ed." Patrick stresses the name very slightly. "And it's not too much time-"

"So you knew about Chequers?"

Patrick's head jerks slightly. "What?"

Alex's smile tells him that he's given him exactly what he wanted.

* * *

"OK-" Bea leans into the mirror in Boots, pushes her lips up. "Do I look like a vampire or not?"

Nancy peers at her, taking in the dark red colour Bea's carefully outlining her lips in. "Like, if a vampire ate tulips. That's good" she says, when Bea squints at her doubtfully.

Liberty peers over her shoulder, from where she's chosen the same colour. Against her pale skin, inherited from her father, it stands out more, but looks good, like Snow White, Nancy thinks-with Bea's slightly more tanned, olive-toned skin, it looks exotic, makes her look older.

"Yeah. Not too vampirish. Didn't they used to call them Jezabels, when women started wearing makeup in the 1920s or something, stuff like that-"

"Weren't they flapper girls-" Nancy went as one for one of the Downing Street parties last year.

"Yeah. That one you dressed up as-"

"I thought you dressed up as Lady Jane Grey?" Bea's running her finger along the foundations, pulling out one to examine it.

"No, her sister. And that was the year before." Nancy joins her, running her own finger along the tubes. Mum doesn't let her wear foundation yet. Occasionally, she can have a bit of pink lip gloss on, and a hint of blusher, but Mum says she doesn't want her to clog up her skin. "Because of where Flo's room is in Chequers-"

"Do you remember when we went there for Christmas when we were kids?" Bea asks, picking out one of the foundations and stroking it against her finger experimentally. "We told Will and El that Lady Mary Grey was in the corridor-"

Nancy nods, oddly reluctant to let go of the story. Even as she and Bea were telling it to the boys when they were little, their sentences running into each other, as the four of them stood outside the book-lined entrance to the secret passageway running through Chequers, a part of her had believed it, as though they'd uncovered the words themselves rather than simply pulling them out of thin air.

"Yeah, and then we went for New Year-and Luke nearly got locked in-" Liberty pulls out another tube of lipstick. "Here, you try some-do you remember when we started our art lessons and that teacher freaked out because you painted Lady Jane having her head cut off?"

Nancy eyes the lipstick tube doubtfully, as Bea leans over, unscrewing it. "Yeah, look-it's like, a pale pink-"

Nancy glances around, still adjusting to the odd sensation of being out without anyone watching her. Even after Paul, their protection officer, had told Dad it was OK, Nancy had been able to tell he was reluctant.

"We're only going to look at clothes" she'd said, glancing at Bea and Liberty, aware that she was the only one standing back, waiting to be given permission. "No-one knows who I am."

_Without you there_ , had hovered unspoken between them.

Dad had watched her for a moment, hoisting Flo higher into his shoulder, as she pressed her forehead against his cheek.

"No-one's going to notice me" Nancy had argued, only realising as she said the words that she had no idea what that would feel like.

Now, Liberty guides the lipstick to her mouth carefully, Bea gripping her chin. "Here, stay still."

Nancy bares her teeth at her.

"Don't bite-" Bea taps her teeth. "You'll give me rabies-"

Nancy sticks out her tongue, then stills, letting Liberty guide a bloom of colour into her mouth.

"And here-close your eyes-"

Nancy does and feels a mascara wand being curled under her eyelashes.

"It's a free sample-" Liberty says quickly, as if sensing any objection. "You can wipe it off before we get back."

"There-" Bea nudges her. "Look-"

Nancy's an inch shorter than Bea and Liberty but she manages to peer into the mirror, only slightly needing to stand on her toes.

"Wow" she says, watching surprise touch her own eyes as she takes in the sight of her lashes, longer and darker than she's used to, her lips a little fuller and rounder, a darker pink against her face.

"It looks good." Bea pouts her own lips, holds out her phone in front of them, reflecting the camera to capture the three of them as Nancy studies her own face, which, if she looks quickly, could be the face of someone older, someone who's not quite her.

* * *

"I'm carrying a canopy, Flo, I can't _jump_ for you-" David hoists Flo higher up on his shoulders, half-dragging the canopy along the floor behind him.

_"Nancy-"_ Flo's voice is high with delight, her little hands roaming dangerously close to David's eyes.

"I know, I'm _looking_ for Nancy-" David pulls her legs down carefully, steadying her on his shoulders, as they move to the next aisle. "And if she isn't here when she said she'd be in bloody Boots, I'm going to take that canopy back and for what it cost, I will ram it so far up someone's-"

He stops, taking in the three girls at the other end of the aisle. "Oh, thank God." Nancy's denim jacket, patterned with pink threads, stands out.

He starts to move towards them, then stops, taking them in. Nancy's standing in the middle, Liberty tilting her chin carefully. David can't quite catch what they're saying, but Liberty smudges her thumb over Nancy's eyes, laughing. Bea is selecting another lipstick, turning back to Nancy, who grabs her hand, holding it still.

"Here, this one's lighter-" Bea's voice splits the air, a little louder than the other two. "It'll look good-"

Her voice drops away again, as the three girls peer into the mirror. David watches them, aware of Flo squirming about on his shoulders, but his eyes stay on the other three, peering into the glass as they colour and smudge with shy, inexpert hands. Nancy isn't allowed to wear makeup yet, except for special occasions, but David doesn't say anything, just watches her lean into the other two, and for a moment, in the mirror, her face looks different, older, like a photograph that's been very slightly altered, and David can't tell for a few moments if it's the make-up or just the fact that his daughter thinks that, for once, no-one's watching her.

* * *

"Who are they?" Kit says, from the other side of the tree trunk he and Elwen are both leaning against.

"Who?" Elwen catches sight of Felix, inching along a wooden bridge a few metres away, aims his paintball gun carefully.

Kit inches round the tree trunk towards him-then, spotting Felix too, raises his own gun. Elwen nudges him carefully, and then, with a count of three, they both set fire.

"Those guys watching us" Kit says, one chase and two paint splatters later, as they're crouching inside another wooden shelter.

"Oh." Elwen glances over, at one of the guards that he's almost become accustomed to, standing off through the trees, far enough away not to be hit, but easily within sight. "One of Dad's guards."

"What are they for?" Kit asks, out of breath, his blond hair stuck damply to his forehead under his helmet. "Your dad's not here."

Elwen shrugs. "I know. But they have to watch us too." He grabs Kit's sleeve. "Gabe's over there-"

"Why do they have to watch you?" Kit asks, as they peer through the window at Gabe, moving through the trees, noticing that he's been joined by David, red hair visible even under the helmet, trying not to let twigs crack under their shoes. "If your dad's not here."

"They're with him too. He's got Nancy and Flo."

"Yeah, I know, but why do they need to be here?"

Elwen's young enough to have not really considered this before, and he's still young enough for the sharper points of the question to glide over his head.

"I don't know. Because they know we're Dad's, I suppose." His hand fastens into Kit's sleeve. "Shh. If we're quiet, we can get closer to them."

He and Kit both go still, as they watch Felix and Gabe arranging themselves of one of the castle-like structures. He holds Kit's sleeve for a moment, as they watch, Kit's breathing stuttering in his air. Elwen wonders if this is how Dad feels when he goes deer-stalking with Grandpa on Jura, waiting for his prey to notice it's in danger.

Elwen gives a slight squeeze to Kit's hand and then, rearing up in front of the window, they fire, paintball splattering on the backs of Gabe's and Felix's armour. Gabe lets out a yelp of surprise as Elwen and Kit spill out of the shelter and take off through the forest towards him, whoops of laughter echoing from their throats, their questions forgotten in the thrill of the chase and the paint, the trees towering over their heads.

* * *

"No, Bea, I don't regret not going to Nando's" Dad says, propping Flo up carefully on her seat cushion. "According to your mother, you practically live off the stuff anyway, so it shouldn't be too much of a drain on your resources-"

"Mum exaggerates." Bea glances down the row of high stools they've managed to grab at the Byron counter, surrounded by the glint of silver metal almost everywhere.

"We'd have tried Wagamamas" Nancy suggests, tugging her menu towards her. "But Flo doesn't like sushi yet-"

"Yeah, and neither do I" Bea points out, her pretty little nose crinkling as she drums her fingers on the table, picking at a chip in her black nail varnish.

Liberty peers over Nancy's shoulder. "Have you noticed that the problem might be you?"

Bea chucks the menu at her. Nancy lets them get on with it, busying herself with examining the list of milkshakes. Glancing over the top, she spots Paul sitting a few chairs further down. Nancy looks away. Even though she was only out of sight of anyone whose job it is to watch her for about ten minutes or so, it's only now they're back that she notices how different it was.

"I like the makeup" Dad says, a few minutes later, quietly enough that the others won't hear.

Nancy glances at him over Florence's head, taking a sip of her Oreo milkshake, trying to purse her lips to stop the gloss getting all over the straw. "Thanks." She'd thought Dad might make them take it off before they went to the food court, but he hadn't, though he'd made Bea wipe under her mouth, on the grounds that they were unlikely to be allowed in if the waiters thought one had already been fed on a carcass.

Dad reaches out, and brushes her hair behind her ear gently. Nancy glances up, notices one of the people sitting at the collection of tables nearby staring, a mum with a hand that's missed her baby's cheek about three times because she's too busy looking at Dad. Nancy glares at her.

Dad taps the spot between her eyebrows. "You'll get wrinkles."

Nancy glances over her shoulder at the others, but Bea and Liberty are still fighting over the menu. Florence is scribbling with one of the crayons the waiter gave them with the menus.

"If we move out" she says, past Florence's shoulders. "We'll still have bodyguards, right?"

Dad almost flinches, though Nancy isn't sure why.

"Yep." He squeezes her shoulder, but his smile hurts slightly in her chest. "But there'll be-well, there won't be less of them but it'll be different, back at the old house. There won't be as many police around."

Nancy had expected this, but it's still an odd thought. It had been a strange feeling, being free from anyone looking at her in Boots with Bea and Liberty, and it's stranger knowing she won't have it again, at least, not very often.

Nancy turns back to her milkshake, but her father's gaze rests on her a second longer, fingers brushing her hair.

* * *

Sam feels a beam spread out through her chest as she watches. She'd been slightly concerned at first, when Elwen had first told them back in January that he wanted to do paintballing for his birthday friends outing, worried about whether they'd be able to stay in sight, but Dave had been more relaxed about it, pointing out that they could check the place out beforehand, and after a few of them had gone up to do a preliminary examination of the venue beforehand, Sam had been persuaded that she was worrying over nothing.

Of course, they can never just think it's nothing, these days.

She watches as Elwen tugs Kit to Will's side, comparing the spatters of brightly-coloured paint all over their combats. It's only paintballing, but it gives Samantha an odd flicker of hope, that if this can be done without too much interference, other things can too. Until the last year or so, most of the childrens' birthday parties have been the sort that can be supervised, their school the same one they've always been at, where they can be safely dropped off and picked up, usually within their parents' sight.

But Nancy will be at secondary school in September. Their friends will, sooner rather than later, want to roam free a little more, stretching the bounds of their parents' gaze. Sooner rather than later, the children will begin to feel the weight of armed police and guns, and the eyes of security officers, more even than she and Dave do, and they'll be the ones who didn't choose it.

Unless it's over before they have to worry about it.

But then, Ed Miliband no longer looms in their lives only as their father's opponent, even if they don't know it.

Sam bites her lip, fixing her eyes on Elwen, his flushed cheeks making his freckles stand out even more, his blue eyes sparkling as he giggles. She knows that sooner or later, they'll have to deal with it. The Miliband thing. It can't go on forever.

But everything seems to run up solidly against the election in May. It's easier to tell herself to get past that first. To get through that.

Then they can deal with this.

As she watches Elwen, putting his arm around Kit's shoulder, raising his hand to examine where a splatter of paint has caught his skin, Sam can see another day suddenly, last summer. They'd been walking in the fields-they were at Dean for the weekend, and had gone out for one of their walks, Elwen running ahead, kicking a ball as they went, still in his Chadlingon Under-10s football kit. Dave had been ambling behind, talking to Nancy, Flo perched happily on his shoulders, pigtails bobbing in the air.

It had seemed to happen in an instant-Elwen's voice had risen in a shrill scream up ahead and Samantha's head had jerked up to see a swarm of angry buzzing rising in a storm around him.

She had been moving before Dave could, anchored with Florence on his shoulders, though she'd heard him shout something, heard Nancy's little voice rise in a shriek, and had been able to hope, fleetingly, that Dave would have the sense to grab her arm, to stop her moving forward too.

Her hands had seized Elwen without noticing the slap of the insects in her face, had lifted all eight years of him easily, though she hadn't carried Elwen in over a year, her hand fastening in his hair, pulling him up to her shoulder, hoping the wasps would move from him to her, feet pounding the grass as she ran, not back to the others, but further into the field, Chris racing to meet her, skidding to his knees at her side. Sam had flung out her arms, her heartbeat louder than her voice, as she'd thrown herself half over Elwen's small body, throwing out her hand as she sensed rather than saw Dave racing towards her.

"Keep them back-" was the only thing she had breath for, but Dave heard her, and he skidded to a halt, wrapping Florence into his chest with one hand, the other arm flung out to grab Nancy's shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

Sam would later be told, at the hospital, that she'd been stung at least ten times, mostly on her feet as she'd trampled over the nest to grab him, but one on her face, but she didn't feel any of it then. It wasn't fear, she felt either-just sheer instinct, taking over her hands as she smoothed Elwen's hair back, her fingers scrabbling at her backpack until Chris realised what she was searching for and he wrenched loose the bottle of water, handing it to her, both of them unscrewing the top before she upended it over Elwen's face and neck, down his top, over his legs and ankles, which were marked with red, raised bumps of stings.

She emptied the remnants over her own head, hoping it would douse any of her perfume, to drive away any of the others, searching for the First Aid Kit she always carries when they're walking. She'd be told later that there were at least sixty stings, ranged over Elwen's feet, some on his arms and hands, a few on his face, but they'd all seemed to blur before her eyes, a mess of red, angry marks.

"Call 111" she said over her shoulder, to either Dave or the guards, knowing that an ambulance won't prioritise this, her hands already shaking at the kit. "Call-"

Dave had already had his phone out, crouching down, trying to see Elwen's face, even as he obeyed her instructions to stay at a safe distance. Florence's little cheeks were creased with tears, making Sam ache in her chest, though she couldn't move from Elwen's side. It had been Nancy who'd bent down to Florence, her arms wrapping around her little sister, even as she stared at Elwen, her slim little frame shaking.

Samantha had pressed a hand to Elwen's cheek, taken in, with some small relief, the lack of any raised bumps near his mouth, eyes or nose. But some covered his cheeks, like mockeries of his sprinkle of freckles, and she pulled out some of the arnica tablets she always carries, propping Elwen's head up on her arm.

"It's all right" she'd said to him, her voice calmed from years of practice, her hand in his hair. "Swallow the tablet, sweetheart-it's all right-"

Chris had handed her his own water, and Sam had tilted it to Elwen's mouth, gently opening it once he'd gulped from the bottle to check he'd swallowed it. He was shaking, which oddly, Sam was grateful for-shock would mean the pain wouldn't hit him until they were somewhere they could stop it, or at least get enough painkillers into him to dull the sensation.

"I'm here" she'd said to him, taking one of his little hands-his hands had seemed so much littler then, to Sam-in her own, Dave's voice a wave of sounds behind her, barely noticing the throb of her stings. "It's OK, El. You're going to be all right."

Elwen's blue eyes, Dave's in miniature, had been fixed on her own, his little fingers gripping back, his cheeks white, making the freckles and stings stand out in sharp relief. Sam had stroked his hair back, kissing his forehead. "It's all right" she'd murmured into his skin. "You're all right."

Elwen had looked back at her as she pressed their foreheads together, his hand tight around hers'. "Don't be scared, Mum" he'd said, his voice small and frightened, and Sam had cuddled him tighter, looked back at him until her eyes blurred, kept holding on.

* * *

"I can't believe you didn't think to mention Chequers" Patrick says, for about the fifth time.

"Who to?" Alex asks, almost lazily, taking a sip of his third cocktail. Patrick's been making sure to slip the waitress an extra tip each time she comes to their table, as though they might be presenting a problem just by sitting here.

"Anyone" Patrick snaps out, knowing it doesn't make sense and all the more annoyed for it. He rests his head on his hand. "Brilliant."

Alex gives him a grin. "Did your boss not confide this aspect of the sorry saga in you?"

Patrick lifts his head to glare at him. "My _boss-"_ He almost spits out the word. "Doesn't know I'm here." He raises an eyebrow. "Does your brother?"

Alex stirs the cocktail with a grin. "Why wouldn't I tell my brother I'm meeting with an Old Etonian school friend?"

Patrick's eyes narrow. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Why?" Alex's eyes are as wide as Patrick's are narrowed. "Don't you like the reminder?"

Patrick looks away, staring out of the window, thoughts racing. "What are we going to do?" he says, half-talking out loud to himself.

"We?" says Alex, eyebrow arching. "This rather sounds like a you problem."

Patrick glances at him, prickling. "I'd have thought a Tory like you would be just as keen to try and bend the election for his own advantage."

"Think you've got me confused with my little brother." Alex twiddles the straw between his fingers. "I don't believe I've told you whether I'm a Tory or not."

Patrick snorts. "You didn't have to." Everything about Alex screams _Tory_ -from the suit to the casual way he's on his third cocktail without checking the prices. Speaking of which, it screams _Etonian_ too.

Alex raises an eyebrow. "Really?" He lets his eyes flicker over Patrick, taking in his own suit, the second cocktail he's nursing, the watch on his wrist. "Because you'd have had to tell me that you weren't."

Patrick's cheeks flame. "I don't think schooling dictates your political ideology."

Alex's eyebrow travels higher. "Really? You might want to remind your boss."

"This isn't a political discussion." Patrick's own voice is tight. "I didn't come here for this."

"But don't you find it's a welcome addition?" Alex gives him a ghost of his brother's grin.

Patrick leans back. "Forget it. If you're not going to be helpful-"

"How-" Alex's voice is deliberately slow, lingering over each word. "Exactly did you expect me to be helpful?"

Patrick mouths for a moment, wrestling with the groundswell of suggestions he'd expected to flood out.

"You need to talk to him" is what he hears himself say, voice softer than he expected. "Because they're-they're too-"

Alex just looks at him. Patrick knows he's going to make him say it.

"They're too close." Patrick pushes the word out as quickly as possible.

Alex's eyes don't flicker, not quite. But they almost do. "And what does close mean?"

Patrick looks away, expelling a long sigh. He looks back at Alex, then away, then back. "You know what I'm talking about" he says. "It's not-good for opponents to have their judgement-clouded."

Alex's mouth twitches. "You mean they might start finding a kindred spirit in one another?"

Patrick snorts. Alex waits. A minute goes by in silence, then two.

Patrick sighs and pushes himself upright, patience pulling taut in his chest.

"Did you know I had breakfast on the Queen's bed once?"

Patrick stops dead, halfway off the seat. "What?"

Alex has leant back, stirring an olive with his straw. "Back before our time. When I was at Heatherdown." He doesn't even have to ask if Patrick knows what that refers to. "Prince Edward was in our year, before he got packed off to Gordonstoun, poor little bugger. Him and I hit it off quite a bit, and so on and so on." He gives Patrick a wink. "Got invited to Windsor. Piled into bed with Her Majesty one morning. David was wildly jealous."

Patrick blinks. "You're telling me this now?"

Alex leans back again, eyes fixed on Patrick's. "Just one of those things that happens with little brothers" he says, with a small smile. "Perhaps something he could find in common with your boss."

Patrick watches him closely. "What are you saying?"

Alex gives him the grin. "Just like what we've found in common for ourselves right here" he says, easily. "The waitress will be grateful for that little extra tip, by the way."

Patrick's caught for a second, his cheeks warming.

Alex's grin grows ever so slightly more pronounced. "Good Old Etonian boy."

* * *

"So, I'll ask you again, will you refuse to do any deals with the SNP? Yes or no?"

Ed, leaning on the lectern, looks out at the sea of faces in front of him, aware that the cameras are on him. Jill and Ayesha are perched together, eyes bright with encouragement, both of them giving him thumbs up. Stewart's standing behind him, nodding at him approvingly. Torsten's making notes, but he's stopped dead, his eyes fixed on Ed's lectern, waiting for the next few words. And Alastair's standing at the back, arms folded, watching him.

His words gnarl and curl in Ed's stomach.

"I'm not going to start trying to predict the result of the election a month from polling day." He swallows, aware his hair's sticking to his forehead. "You're asking me about deals. I'm not going to begin negotiating deals with anyone before a single vote's been counted. If I were-"

Craig. A Cameron and Craig thing.

"Oh! So you've admitted it-"

Ed pushes away the desperate urge to believe that Craig couldn't know anything about what him and Cameron have been doing, that no one could, that he can barely let _himself_ know about what he and Cameron have been doing, for God's sake....

A Cameron and Craig thing.

"You _are_ preparing to do a deal with Nicola Sturgeon-"

But Gordon did phone him....

"You're just not prepared to let anyone know what it _is_ yet-"

Ed turns to Tom, standing next to him, eyebrow arched. He can almost see Cameron's smug face, that cocky grin, that one that curls his mouth when Ed's just a few inches away from him, as though he just knows what Ed's about to do next-

Ed curls his fingers around the wood.

"Oh, why don't you just fuck off, David-"

He stops dead, the moment he hears the words out loud. Tom stares at him, eyes widening, mouth opening in a half-laugh, turning to the others for help.

Ed stills, waiting for Alastair's roar.

Instead, there's a strange sound-a low barking, that has Ayesha and Jill turning their heads slowly, as though expecting to see an angry wolf shuffling its' way into the room.

Stewart too turns round, backing away slightly, and Ed follows his gaze, further towards the back of the room, to see Alastair clapping his hands together, bent over slightly at the waist, mouth open, and makes his way to the slow realisation that Alastair's laughing.

Alastair claps slowly, face wreathed in a grin. "I think you might have just lost the election there, Ed."

The words break the tension, a silent permission. Ayesha lets out a low, shaky laugh, and Jill's shoulders sink in relief.

Ed laughs too, his hand gripping the lectern slightly for support. Alastair, watching him over the others' heads, even through his own mirth, gives him the slightest flicker of a wink and a thumbs up.

Ed nods back at him, laughing a little louder himself now, defiance flickering in his chest. Cameron and Craig. He holds onto the words, nodding almost to himself, even as his laughter falls into the air, a little shakier than he'd let himself believe.

Forget Cameron and Craig. They've got an election to win.

And Eton doesn't need any sympathy from him.

* * *

"Friend of the elves" Sam says to Elwen, taking the moment when his friends run ahead back to the car.

Elwen glances up at her. "What?"

"Friend of the elves. That's what your name means." Sam takes the moment to ruffle Elwen's hair, before he'll disappear back into the crowd of his friends. "I found it in the book your dad brought me. We thought it was perfect."

Elwen's brow furrows. "Friend of the elves?" Overhead, the sky is pinkening with early sunset, as the boys run, shoes skittering over the stones, back to the minibus.

"Yeah." Sam lets her arm fall around her son's shoulders. "Elves are kind, helpful. Magic. We thought it was a good omen."

"Oh." Elwen blinks up at her, presses into her side for a moment. Sam relishes that, always wondering when will be the last time that Elwen will be happy to do that in front of his friends, whether either of them will know it's the last time.

She gives him a pat on the shoulder, letting him run ahead to the others. Watches him melt into the group, and wonders how long he'll be able to do that without noticing.

* * *

"Nance-" Dad puts his arm around her shoulders as they walk out of Westfields, into the early evening air. "Listen, you know Liberty's coming to Prime Minister's Questions on Wednesday?"

Nancy glances up. "Is she?" Liberty and Bea are running ahead, for the moment, allowing her to hang back with Dad, who's carrying Florence on one hip. Florence is tired now, head resting on her father's shoulder, half-asleep, while he kisses her cheek.

"Yeah. Uncle George is doing his Budget and he thought it might be nice for Luke and Liberty to come and see him." Dad's arm squeezes her shoulders slightly as he says this. Nancy hears the unspoken words without quite being old enough to grasp them, _Since they might not get another chance..._

"Oh." Liberty hasn't mentioned it to either of them all day, though she must have known.

"Are we going to get to watch you?" she asks Dad, as he tucks her hair back behind her ears.

"That's what I was asking you." Overhead, the sky's a strange, orange-pink, the wind still cold enough to bite Nancy's fingers, but the hint of a longer day peeking through the clouds. "Would you like to come to PMQs on Wednesday?"

Nancy almost jumps at her father's side.

"Yeah-"-but her whoop is cut short by the sight of Dad's finger across his lips.

"Don't mention it to Elwen and Flo" he says, in an undertone-Flo is sleeping against his shoulder now, chubby cheeks rosy in rest. "Mum and I were thinking of you and El coming along to the last one next week, but we thought you might like to come to the Budget one. It's a lot longer than a normal PMQs, we thought El might get restless."

Nancy nods. "Yeah." She doesn't like the thought of Luke and Liberty going without her, for one thing-it hadn't been so bad last year when just Liberty went, because Luke had school tests he couldn't miss. But she doesn't like the thought of all of the older kids being there apart from her.

Dad kisses her head. "Good. But, Nance, don't tell Bea. She might feel left out if you and Liberty are going and she isn't."

"Oh." Now Liberty's reticence on the matter makes more sense to Nancy. She remembers the night of the Scottish referendum, back in September, having fallen asleep knowing vaguely it was a big event-her thoughts roaming between that and the fact Mum and Dad had looked around Holland Park that afternoon without her, and whether it would be weird not going to the same school as Bea-being shaken awake by Dad when it was still dark outside, her and Elwen walking downstairs in pyjamas and slippers, Nancy with a purple hoodie fastened over her pyjama top, to find Uncle George, Luke and Liberty sitting in one of Dad's offices, Uncle Craig standing behind the couch. Dad had kissed her on the head, as he'd led them back to one of the sofas, Liberty bouncing down beside her.

"Did we win?" Nancy had asked, suddenly wide awake as she caught sight of the TV screens, which had held an array of results and numbers, with the BBC headlines streaming along the bottom.

Dad had kissed her head hard, Elwen sliding back onto his lap. "Yep."

"They got crushed" Liberty had informed her with a grin, dark hair spilling around her face.

"So Scotland's still part of the UK?" Nancy had asked, trying to catch up as quickly as possible, only for the words to be drowned out by Elwen's arms exploding into the air, voice bursting out in a whoop that was only drowned out by Dad's cheer, as the newscaster announced something that Nancy couldn't hear.

"Yep" Uncle George had said, once the cries had quietened. "Your dad's won it."

Nancy had felt a surge of fierce pride and love in her little chest. Apart from Elwen asking if he could stay off school to help campaign to keep Scotland in the UK, neither of them had been too aware of the Scottish referendum, she'll realise later on-but she'd sensed, through whispers and times when the kitchen lights had stayed on for hours, stretching into the night-that it was more important than most things Dad did.

She'd scrambled over to Dad, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pressing her lips to his cheek. "Five stars, Daddy" she'd told him, settling in comfortably against his side to watch the news, enjoying the familiar sensation of watching her father win something, the safe squeeze of his arm that's been around her all her life, snuggling her into his lap.

Bea, however, had been rather miffed to learn, at the celebratory dinner that night, that she alone of her, Nancy and Liberty, had not been at the viewing party that morning.

"You could have texted me" she'd said, the annoyance in her voice belying the slightly injured look in her big green eyes.

Nancy and Liberty had glanced at each other, caught at the realisation.

"I don't have a phone" Nancy had reminded her, grateful at the exoneration.

Both of their gazes had turned to Liberty, who had bitten her lip, suddenly solely responsible.

"Sorry" she'd said to Bea, her cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. "I didn't think. I thought you'd be asleep."

"I could have woken up!"

"But your mum takes your phone out of your room at night, doesn't she?" Nancy had only been trying to be helpful, but Bea's cheeks had flushed an angrier shade of scarlet.

It had been Liberty who'd put her arm around her shoulders, consolingly. "Sorry" she'd said, pulling Bea in for a half-hug. "I thought you'd be asleep."

Bea had huffed, but amenably.

"It's only because you don't live here" Nancy had said, helpfully. "Because you couldn't have come over at five o'clock. Otherwise, you'd have been here."

Bea's eyes had narrowed very slightly, but she'd nodded. But she'd been a little quieter for the rest of the evening, and Nancy hadn't been able to help wondering if they shouldn't have mentioned it at all.

Now, she nods. "OK."

Dad squeezes her shoulder. "We don't want Bea to feel left out."

Nancy shakes her head, and, with a kiss to her head, Dad pats her on the back, which Nancy takes as a signal that she can run ahead to the others.

"What was that?" Liberty says, as Nancy crashes between them, her arms looping around both their shoulders, and Nancy, remembering Liberty's success at keeping this quiet, mentally zips her own lips too.

"Nothing" she says, linking arms with Liberty on her left and Bea on her right. "Just Flo, getting to sleep."

The three of them amble down the pavement, arms linked, their conversation dissolving into rivers of giggles that chatter and flow between them, all three unaware of David's gaze resting on their backs. If they had been looking, they would have noticed that his expression is an odd mixture of fondness and the slightest touch of sadness, particularly as his eyes rest on his daughter.

But they aren't looking. Above them, the sky glows a cool pink, as sunset stretches across the clouds, tinting the air with a faint, eerily beautiful haze, even above the city sprawled out around them, as if the sky has forgotten about the night that must draw in for just a little longer.

* * *

_Playlist_

_The Wreck Of Our Hearts-Sleeping Wolf _ _-"I'll take you dancing/We lived through the wreck of our hearts/And now we're just picking up the pieces...There's a me without you/But that's not where I belong"_

_My Better Self-Tennis-" _ _Each and every portent/Of bitter distance spent/Despite the effort I have planned/You seem to lose what I've meant...My better self still knows/That meaning comes and goes"_

_How They Want Me To Be-Best Coast-" _ _'Cause when I wake up in the morning or the middle of the night/I wonder who's there, and what they've said"_

_Colors-Halsey _ _-"Your little brother never tells you but he loves you so/He said your mother only smiled on her TV show..And now I'm covered in the colors, pull apart at the seams...You say you'll never be forgiven 'til your boys are too/And I'm still waking every morning but it's not with you/...You were red/And you liked me because I was blue"_

_Nuclear Seasons-Charli XCX-" _ _When you go please don't leave your love in the sun/Because my heart would melt away/In the night with your twisted tongue/When you drop the bomb I'm blown away/Because I refuse to hide in a page of this story/I come out the box, I won't say I'm sorry/We in the nuclear season/In the shelter I survived the storm"-I'm trying out not explaining why certain songs suit the story at certain points, and just letting readers make up their own minds, but this kind of just really suits the last few scenes, under the sunset._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elwen's paintball party:https://bit.ly/39oZLGA  
> Nancy and Elwen can be seen watching the Scottish referendum results coming in here (in part 2 of The Cameron Years):https://bit.ly/2JkM0xW  
> The incident with Elwen and the wasps:http://dailym.ai/2UrCnE0  
> Nancy's denim jacket can be seen here (in a clip of her arriving in Lanzarote on holiday with Dave in 2016):https://bit.ly/3dBLoC3  
> Elwen asking to stay off school to help the Scottish referendum campaign:https://bit.ly/2Uuo95r  
> Sarah's article about Ed and Justine's kitchen:http://dailym.ai/2QUG1UL  
> The Shard and Oblix where Alex and Patrick meet:https://bit.ly/2JjXuBM  
> https://bit.ly/3byzgjf  
> The Westfield shopping centre where Dave takes the girls, and the atrium, H&M, Boots, John Lewis and Byron Burgers mentioned:https://bit.ly/2Jpt0hG  
> https://bit.ly/3dFH5FC  
> https://bit.ly/2UskpBp  
> https://bit.ly/33V9ZgG  
> https://bit.ly/2Uoo6YK  
> https://bit.ly/2QUBbXt  
> https://bit.ly/3bAwKZX  
> https://bit.ly/3bymKAj  
> https://bit.ly/2WRqQ2w  
> The kids finding a secret passageway at Chequers:http://dailym.ai/2vXgByt  
> Sarah and Portillo's TV appearance:https://bbc.in/2WPAAu4  
> Nancy was very annoyed about Jeremy Clarkson's sacking:http://dailym.ai/2WPC8Ef  
> Elwen being sweet-natured:https://bit.ly/2xAodYo  
> Jill, Ed's adviser, went on to marry Mo, one of Dave's former advisers:https://bit.ly/2QScwD9  
> Nancy Astor is Sam's ancestor and Nancy's namesake:https://bit.ly/33SzE9P  
> Bea loving Nandos:https://dailym.ai/2rkqBiwCopy  
> Nancy being referred to as Nancy Gwen:https://bit.ly/2JpRDuG  
> Justine would be hired as a professor at UCL:https://bit.ly/3at8GYO  
> Justine's comments about spending free time with the boys:https://bit.ly/2Us3Xku  
> The article Alastair mentions to Tony: https://dailym.ai/35vs5FJ  
> The article Tony refers to:https://bit.ly/2QUVd49  
> Some of Ed B's comments about Ed:https://bit.ly/2UqeMU1  
> Sajid Javid, who would later become Chancellor Of The Exchequer, was then working for George:https://bit.ly/2WVybhp  
> Sarah writing about the menopause:https://bit.ly/2JmSFrl  
> Ed's interview in Birmingham:https://bit.ly/39qDBDP  
> The Birmingham rally Ed attends:https://bbc.in/2xu5f5w  
> David's speech at BAE Systems:https://bit.ly/3at8UPE  
> The article that Tom finds, revealing the second kitchen is for Zia:https://bit.ly/39oDgkP  
> Some of the other kitchen articles:https://bit.ly/2UqdXup  
> https://bit.ly/3bxDKXu  
> https://bit.ly/3bwNKQL  
> https://bit.ly/33U6VkN  
> Jenni Russell's comments and relationship to Ed:https://bit.ly/2JptfJS  
> Jenni's husband:https://bit.ly/2JA8lYF  
> Ed B dressed up ashttps://bit.ly/3dCGgxt Santa:http://dailym.ai/3bwgVn5  
> Nick's radio interview:https://bit.ly/2y9vsXh  
> https://bit.ly/2QU4olE  
> The filming Nick and Miriam do:https://bit.ly/2UHAPVi  
> Antonio's question about the student protests:https://bit.ly/3bAdLP7  
> Nick's account of when he first met Miriam:https://bit.ly/3bB4zKs  
> Ed relying on Ayesha for help with some basics:https://bit.ly/39tkdWy  
> Dave being great at deerstalking:https://bit.ly/2xtNW4H  
> Ed saying Justine's career came above the kids:https://bit.ly/3bxDBTW  
> https://bit.ly/2yatDcC  
> Ed's previous run-in with and opposition to private schools:https://bit.ly/33XUXXE  
> https://bit.ly/2WPDeQn  
> More about the Jeremy Clarkson punching incident:https://bit.ly/3ayaIag  
> The PMQs incidents that Alastair mentions:https://bbc.in/2y9wv9F  
> https://bit.ly/33Ra8Sk  
> Farage's claim about Dave nicking his cigarettes:https://bit.ly/39omiDf  
> A reminder of some of the bad blood between Justine and Louise:http://dailym.ai/3bArIwC


	9. Prolific Playgrounds, Fissures In Facades And Conclusionary Cinematics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which there are too many Toms, just enough playgrounds, and only so much healing power that can be found from a cartoon sheep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> The reference quotes for this chapter refer to Justine's friendships and more of the fallout between Ed and his brother. There's a section of quotes at the end about the 2011 London riots, which are discussed.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_You and my wife...she's a massive malt loaf person. I am not a malt loaf person. At all. Give me a Quaver over a malt loaf anytime. -Ed Miliband speaking in 2019_

_It was my son Sam's seventh birthday this week...they watched Shaun The Sheep the movie, he loves Shaun The Sheep.. -Ed Miliband, speaking in 2017_

_Sam, my younger son, has very curly hair and he's, he's cut a lot of it off so that his hair is now straight and quite short...Bizarrely enough, I was, I had blond curls 'til I was about three....Honestly, I had blond curly hair until I was about three or four and then it gradually became dark and straight. -Ed Miliband speaking in 2019_

* * *

_Two months after moving back to the UK in March 2004, Ed went to a dinner party in London where he struck up a conversation with a clever young lawyer from Nottingham named Justine Thornton._

_Though she was struck by his eyes-wide and brown and fixed on their subject-a friend remembers Justine's undoubted excitement after meeting Ed as **"gosh, how fascinating, he's really clever"** rather than **"gosh, how handsome."** It wasn't love at first sight, and it was several months before the pair started formally dating...In 1989, she was admitted to Cambridge University to study law, graduating in 1992 with a 2:1. Called to the Bar in 1994, she became a specialist in environmental law and was working as a senior associate at Allen and Overy Solicitors when she met Ed in 2004. (She has since moved to 39 Essex Street and has been variously described in legal directories as **"intelligent, thorough and pleasant", "charming and highly committed",** and _"switched on.")

_She and Ed had much in common: their intelligence, their interest in the environment, and many of their political beliefs. Already a member of the Labour Party when they met, Justine has been described by one friend as belonging to the **"more moderate wing"** and by another as a **"traditional, liberal, moderate centre-leftist."** But she herself wasn't political.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Justine is signed up to Ed's political project. She has been described as the sort of person who **"gathers information about something, processes it and then works out what she wants to do-then she is decided."** This stands her in good stead as a barrister, but applies equally to her private life. In the early days of her relationship with Ed Miliband, a friend says that the couple never discussed the Labour leadership, but **"Justine did expect that he might become a Cabinet minister and be in politics for a long time, and she thought through the pros and cons. She decided that she was willing to make whatever sacrifices were necessary."..** Though she has little to say about the ups and downs of British politics and policy and tends to defer to Ed on such issues, Justine is very much her own person. Like her old (law-school) friend Frances Osborne, wife of George, she is averse to being typecast as a **"political wife."** She is hugely supportive of Ed's career-he has called her **"my best counsel"-** but he likewise is genuinely supportive of hers. One friend of Ed and Justine's talks about their " **strikingly consensual relationship..It is so equal; neither dominates at all.".**.Despite her support for his career, however, Justine has also made it clear to friends that she is of a different generation to political wives of yesteryear and, like the Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg's wife Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, has no plans to parade around behind Ed._

_Meanwhile, domestically Justine is undoubtedly the organiser and always has been-she handled their move in March 2008 from his flat in Primrose Hill to a spacious house in Dartmouth Park (and, as the press has been keen to point out, it is her name on the house deeds.) A friend comments: **"The house looks imposing but it's not glamorous, and it's not a very swanky neighbourhood."** As to Justine's credentials as a domestic goddess: **"She doesn't swan around effortlessly producing three-course meals. She's more likely to be on her way to the kitchen and start a conversation with someone."** Another friend of Justine agrees that **"the striking thing about their home is the normality of it-it's a relaxed, informal family home."** A Labour MP, however, who has visited their home says it is **"a family house but you're not quite sure Ed is the creator of it. It feels like a house he inhabits which has been made by his wife."** Asked by a journalist in 2010 what was on the walls of his new house, Ed replied, **"Something white."** **-** Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre & Mehdi Hasan_

_Justine brought a sense of fun and adventure into his serious, political life. She may have been a lawyer but she wasn't dull. Those who know her best describe her as not just sociable and outgoing but adventurous too. In June 2005, not long after she started dating Ed, Justine and her close friend and fellow barrister Quincy Whitaker climbed the 4,167 metres of Mount Toubkal in Morocco-the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains. The duo daringly started off their trek up the mountain wearing just T-shirts and shorts but, as they reached the top, and the temperature dropped, they were forced to ask their Berber guides to unwrap their turbans and use them as makeshift shawls to keep warm. Justine's sense of adventure wasn't diminished. Later, when Whitaker planned a trip for the two of them to India, Justine proposed they go **"via Afghanistan."** Whitaker had to talk her out of it. A few months after the Morocco trip, backbencher Ed joined Justine and Whitaker on another of their foreign holidays-this time to Libya, where they were virtually the only Western tourists inspecting scenic Roman ruins. The trip was **"dry"** -non-alcoholic-but nonetheless the conversation flowed, from Roman history to Haverstock-where, coincidentally, both Ed and Whitaker had gone to school-to British politics and the failings of New Labour, about which Ed was **"in no way aggressive or defensive"** in the face of what Whitaker admits now were her **"rants"** on Iraq and civil liberties.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Oona King, the former Labour MP, was in a class two years below David and two years above Ed (at Haverstock)...At 5pm on the day of Ed's Downing Street conversation with (Greg) Beales, 11 May (2010), Gordon Brown resigned as Prime Minister after it became clear that Nick Clegg had made up his mind to side with the Tories. Like many of the party's elite, Ed made his way to Labour's headquarters on Victoria Street for an emotional gathering to mark the end of New Labour in office. Then, in the pouring rain, he walked round the corner with Alastair Campbell to the pub where party workers were coming together to drown their sorrows. That evening, Oona King rang Ed on his mobile and spoke to him about the leadership. She started by saying **"You've got to run."** King detected he had **"probably made up his mind",** though Ed claimed to be merely taking soundings. **"I think the only thing holding him back was the fact that David was running. And I'm certain that if David hadn't been running, there wouldn't even have been an issue." K** ing ended the call with " **I can't imagine how hard this is for you."** Ed replied, **"Yes, it's really hard"** but, says King, he didn't say anything more than that.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ed watched his brother's declaration on television, from the sitting room of his home, where he had now been joined by two supportive former Brown advisers, his right-hand man Stewart Wood and Gavin Kelly. Despite Ed's conversation with Beales more than twenty-four hours earlier, not to mention his calls to (Hilary) Benn and (Peter) Hain, he insists today that he had not yet decided to run at the time of David's statement. Be that as it may, he now became locked into forty-eight hours of intense talks at home with his closest aides and his partner Justine. A prolific user of text messages, Ed was also engaged in an endless round of text messages and calls to MPs, allies and friends. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_...Ed, Wood and Kelly had a last round of painstaking discussions about the pros and cons of Ed running. The fact that Ed would be standing against his own brother was **"the biggest obstacle",** Ed says now. While outwardly giving the impression he was relaxed about it to enquiring MPs-he told Hain he would " **never forgive"** himself for not running just because his brother was-Ed was acutely aware of the problem. He thought about the personal implications. He knew David would, at best, be bitterly disappointed. But he wouldn't let his elder brother's disappointment prevent him from standing. Ed wanted it too much-and he believed he had every right to stand. Since he was a young boy, he had been encouraged by his parents, and in particular his father, to be cool, dispassionate, and analytical....Though Ed did agonise out loud to confidants about **"the David issue",** he took a rational and intellectual, as opposed to an emotional or sentimental approach...Eventually, Ed turned to the question of how to tell David. The brothers had, extraordinarily, hardly discussed the issue of the Labour leadership in the preceding months. Ed knew the right thing to do was to go and see David face to face. He was extremely apprehensive-but he had the support of Justine. **"Life's an adventure"** she told him. **"And you've got to seize the day."**_

_Finally, just after 10pm on Wednesday 12 May, say friends of Ed, the younger Miliband drove to David's house where he had a civilized forty-minute conversation in which, Ed claims, David said he did not want to be the reason Ed didn't stand. Privately, David denies any such meeting took place that week. It may appear a minor discrepancy on the face of it, but the disagreement over whether and when this crucial conversation took place goes to the heart of the perhaps inevitably dysfunctional relationship that now exists between the brothers. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_After filing into a large room on the top floor of the conference chamber, the five leadership candidates stood next to one another in a semi-circle and waited nervously to hear the result for the first time. As it happened, Ed was at the centre, with David next to him; (Ed) Balls, (Andy) Burnham and (Diane) Abbott stood on both sides of the brothers. Behind them were their agents, (Sadiq) Khan for Ed, and for David his long-serving special adviser Madlin Sadler. Facing them was Ray Collins, Labour's general secretary, and the one man who had known the result since the night before-much to the annoyance of Harriet Harman, the acting leader, who had only been told an hour or so earlier. The candidates had come such a long way, and taken in so many hustings together, they now simply wanted to know the result. So when Collins launched into what sounded like a lengthy speech, declaring that the five candidates had **"all been wonderful ambassadors for the party",** the tension was momentarily punctured by a collective groan from the quintet. Collins responded by cutting to the chase. Walking towards the middle of the semi-circle, he looked straight at Ed and said what an **"honour"** it was to announce that Ed Miliband was the next leader of the Labour Party._

_Burnham, Balls, Abbott and Harman's immediate instinct was to congratulate Ed. But quickly they realised how awkward the situation was, as Ed had first to face the brother whose political career he had just wrecked. Ed and David went into an awkward sideways hug, their heads together as they exchanged whispered words. Harman slipped away to practise her impending speech. Khan grinned, as a distraught Sadler stared off into the middle distance. Balls and his agent, the MP Jim Knight, meanwhile, studied the break-down of the result. The brutally blunt nature of Collins's announcement hid the extremely close and controversial nature of the result. After four rounds of voting, Ed had won with 175, 519 votes to David's, 147, 220. But, crucially, David had won in both the Labour members' and the Labour MPs' sections. Ed had only topped the trade union section-a point not lost on the new Labour leader as he left the room to have a brief and private conversation with his brother in the corridor outside. The candidates now had to regroup with their agents before making their way into the hall for the official announcement. Ed had not had much time to think about David, though he says now he felt an understandably strange mixture of euphoria for himself and disappointment for his brother. The consensus among those he spoke to in the immediate aftermath of the result was that his overriding emotion was concern for David. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ed understands that the centre-ground of politics is not a fixed, geographical location; it shifts and morphs from generation to generation. His agenda, say his allies, is **"Thatcher-esque"** in its ambition-and based on deeply-held beliefs about the nature of society and state. Ed's view is that people of his father's generation and outlook may have had a political perspective that was wrong, impractical and unsustainble, but what motivated them was not wrong. He shares with Ralph a desire to intellectually and morally explain the purpose of politics. Few of his contemporaries could say the same-even his brother._

_**"Ed has radical sensibilities"** says a family friend, who has known him since he was a child. **"He would like to live in a very, very different world. David long ago accommodated himself to the difficulty of changing the world; Ed less so."** **-** Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_The Cameron children ran around the dining room with their cousins (on the night of his leaving party.) It would be a great upheaval for them, too. **"Florence keeps talking about going back to the old house"** one guest said. " **David has to explain she's never actually lived at the old house. Then she went back to the old house, saw how small her bedroom was, and said "Daddy, I want you to keep on being Prime Minister!"** -All Out War: The Full Story Of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class, Tim Shipman_

_I needed a Hoover of gossip, who lived and breathed Westminster-with legs so hollow that he or she could spend hours drinking on the Terrace and eating in the tea rooms. In Gavin Williamson, I found that person. He was likeable, fun and different, with the face of a twenty-three-year-old researcher and the mind of a wizened whip. He would try to lighten my mood with stories or quotes about what MPs had been getting up to. **"Which Tory minister has had carnal relations with a Labour MP?"** he once asked me as he wandered into my office.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_I stepped into the street and spoke from the lectern. Florence stood coyly with her head poked between her mum and her sister (Nancy). She had been nonchalantly talking about moving **"back to the old house",** even though she'd never actually been there. **"They sometimes like to kick the red boxes full of work"** I said, as I paid tribute to the children. **"Florence, you once climbed into one before a foreign trip and said "Take me with you.""** I looked at her and she started beaming. **"Well, no more boxes."...**.The **"old house"** wouldn't be ready for us to move back into for some time, as it was rented out, so we ended up staying at my friend Alan Parker's house for several nights before we found longer-term digs. It was an odd first evening, rattling around in a strange place, rooting for the remote control. It was quiet too. No duty clerks. No Liz (Sugg). No red boxes. As I tucked Florence in, she asked **"Daddy, when are we going back home?"** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_When (Ed) Miliband had finished (his speech), I pulled on my running kit. If I had a rare half-hour spare, that's what I'd do: leave by the back gate of Downing Street and do a figure-of-eight loop around St James's Park and Green Park. I spent a lot of time in the park. Taking Florence to play on the swings after school. Early-morning squats and sprints with my personal trainer Matt Roberts. And these impromptu runs, when I'd weave through an obstacle course of selfie-snapping schoolchildren, ducks, pigeons, squirrels and supposedly, spooks (it was rumoured to be a hotspot for the secret services.) And other things, too...Once, as we ran past a couple enjoying a barely-concealed spliff, one of the police protection officers urged me, " **Breathe deeply, boss-it might help with the pain."** **-** For The Record, David Cameron_

_That summer (2011), I went with Sam and the children to Tuscany. We rented a large villa with friends, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards. It was blissful: playing tennis, reading by the pool, visiting churches and galleries, with young children running around everywhere. Which makes holidaying as prime minister sound fairly peaceful. It isn’t. No matter how remote your retreat, you’re never completely alone. There are police with you constantly. Not only your own protection team, who are always nearby, but the host country’s police as well-in Italy’s case, the regular Polizia, the military-style Carabinieri and even the Forestry Corps. There is always work. A small Downing Street team is permanently on hand in a nearby hotel or villa wherever you go. Every morning a small number of items were brought to me for signing, deciding and reading. And then there was my red box, full of “ **summer reading”** written by hard-working staff wanting to clear their desks before the break, analysing all sorts of complex issues at great length and presented to me just in time for my holiday. And of course the press are never far away. When we arrived at Arezzo Cathedral to look at the frescos by Piero della Francesca there were about fifteen paparazzi waiting for us-tipped off, I’m sure, by the Italian police.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Usually the press would (sort of) stick to the much-mocked deal my press office struck with them. Our side of the bargain was one highly contrived snap of Sam and me-drinking coffee, walking along, or, for some reason-and this happened two years in a row-pointing at fish in a market. Theirs was to leave us alone for the rest of the trip. On this particular holiday, the scene for our photo call was set in the town of Montevarchi. I wandered up to the counter of the carefully chosen bar and ordered tea for Sam and an espresso for me. I asked the waitress if she’d be bringing them over, but she said no, so I paid there, waited for the drinks to come and then took them to a table. Did I give a tip? No. It would have been like tipping when you leave Starbucks. When we left, the journalists interviewed the waitress and asked if I’d given her a tip…Now they had a picture and a story._

_What had inevitably been named **“tip-gate”** carried on when the poor waitress wrote to me a few days later saying her name was now mud to Montevarchi because she’d snubbed the British prime minister. She invited me back to the bar, and this time I went with seven-year-old Nancy. We ordered lemonade and a beer, and Nancy handed her a large tip. The waitress then gave me a bizarre-looking cocktail, which she had named the **“Cameron Tuscan Dream.”** It was one part espresso, one part Vin Santo liqueur and one part cream. I drank it smiling happily-photographers had already assembled-and narrowly avoided giving them the even better story of the prime minister being violently sick on camera.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_What I'll remember most about (their 2011 holiday in) Tuscany was Elwen, then five, deciding he wanted to spend lots of time with me. Father-son relationships can be complex things. I am not sure I was the best dad when he was a toddler. Like many boys, Elwen was a human dynamo, requiring exercise and attention in vast amounts. Sam was much better at handling the oversupply of energy and the occasional tantrum. When I tried to help I often seemed to make the problem worse._

_Looking back, the answer seems simple: the more things you do together, the easier it gets. Maybe we were both struggling a bit with memories of Ivan. During this summer the dynamics suddenly changed, and I had time to make the most of it. We went for walks on our own, and seemed to make a new connection. Every morning Elwen would say, **"Where are we going to go for a walk today, Dad?"** He just wanted to chat. It is a lovely thing when your young ones hit an age when they become your companion as well as your child.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_"Whenever he remembered this moment, it lasted forever: a flash of complete separateness as Lydia disappeared beneath the surface. Crouched on the dock, he had a glimpse of the future: without her, he would be completely alone. In the instant after, he knew it would change nothing. He could feel the ground still tipping beneath him. He and his parents and their lives would spin into the space where she had been. They would be pulled into the vacuum she left behind." -Everything I Never Told You, Celeste Ng_

_"The first night we slept together, I knew he had a crush on me and I felt mostly ambivalent about him. We dated because I loved being loved."- Tova, "Don't Let Me Be Lonely", Rookie Magazine_

_"She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone's little girl. She had had servants and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her." -The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett_

_"(What about Hannah? They set up her nursery in the bedroom in the attic, where things that were not wanted were kept, and even when she got older, now and then each of them would forget, fleetingly, that she existed, as when Marilyn, laying four plates for dinner one night, did not realize her omission until Hannah reached the table. Hannah, as if she understood her place in the cosmos, grew from quiet infant to watchful child; a child fond of nooks and corners, who curled up in closets, behind sofas, under dangling tablecloths, staying out of sight as well as out of mind, to ensure the terrain of the family did not change.)" -Everything I Never Told You, Celeste Ng_

* * *

"Alex, if this is a joke, I'll send somebody to execute you."

"I record all my phone calls, you know-" David rolls his eyes at his brother's voice, picturing him leaning back lazily in his armchair. "That would be a fantastic piece of evidence in a trial."

"You wouldn't be trying me, you'd be long-dead. Mouldering under the ground. I'd have Sarah bury you."

"She'd have to move the pool."* David knows from his voice that Alex is pinching the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses further up. "Anyway, what's so egregious about me speaking to Ed Miliband?"

"That wouldn't be this egregious. That would be more egregious. And you've practically done that, anyway."

"Rubbish. I spoke to Patrick."

"Ed Miliband's Patrick."

Alex laughs. "He's no more Ed Miliband than you are."

David rolls his eyes.

"You could tell he wanted to rip _Old Etonian_ off his forehead and chuck it away."

David opens his mouth, then hesitates. "I suppose that makes him less likely to tell Miliband."

"See? You should be thanking me."

"I should not be bloody thanking you. I should be bloody murdering you myself."

"I've got that old stalker for that."

"Why the hell did you talk to Patrick bloody Hennessey?"

"Like I said." Alex doesn't even pause. "He was a bit worried about his boss."

"Why?"

There's a laugh in Alex's voice. "Shouldn't that be a good thing?"

David rolls his eyes. "Look, I've got to take Flo to the cinema, so get on with it before you've sprouted a beard."

"Unlikely for us. Well, he just thought that Miliband might get a little distracted by you."

David blinks. "What?"

"That's what I said. I mean, he may try to get distracted _from_ you-"

"Can we skip the parts of the conversation where you try to be funny?"

"But they're the best parts."

David rolls his eyes.

"Like I said-" Alex sounds faintly amused. "I thought that would be a good thing for you."

David fidgets, uncharacterstically. "I'm not trying to distract Miliband."

"No?" He knows Alex's eyebrow is raising. "I thought you were in full election mode."

"We are." David glances away, as though Alex can see him. "That doesn't mean I'm trying to distract Miliband."

"Well, that's what I told Patrick." Alex sounds a little brisker now. "Though maybe Miliband doesn't feel the same way."

"What?"

"Well, if he's the one who sent Patrick to talk to me-" Alex lets the sentence hang.

David grips his phone a little tighter. "You didn't say that."

"Well, I didn't ask. And he didn't say."

David frowns. "So-"

"So. I'm just saying it's a possibility." Alex hesitates very slightly, letting the words sink in. "Maybe you're just more distracting than Miliband is."

David stares at his desk, phone held loosely in his hand, the words percolating in his mind. "Perhaps."

* * *

"Here-" Zia kisses Daniel's head as she tugs his blue sweatshirt down, smoothing it gently with her hands.* "We don't want to get it crumpled, do we?"

Daniel pulls at it, wanting to rumple it between his hands. It had been all laid out on a chair for him when Zia got him out of bed this morning-it's much earlier than they have to get up on a weekend, and it was still dark outside when he and Sam were eating their breakfast, though now birds keep making little squawks outside, like they're trying to make someone hear them.

Daniel thinks it was Mummy who woke him up, but he can't remember. If he thinks, he can feel her hand shaking his shoulder once or twice, her voice going up and down as though not sure how quiet she was supposed to be, going brittle and hard, and then it had been Zia who'd come in.

Sam's wearing a stripy top, rubbing his eyes. Daniel puts his hand on his shoulder while Zia's combing his hair, trying to get one of Sam's curls round his fingers.

Sam makes a noise, and holds onto Daniel's finger. Daniel puts his arm round him, feeling like one of the Octonauts. Like Peso looking after Pinto. He could hide Sam in their underwater ship and everything would be all right.

* * *

There are lots of people in the hallway, when Zia opens the door. Some of them are Daddy's friends, like Torsten and Tom, who are in the kitchen, Torsten mixing something in a bowl, but some of them are men in T-shirts, who are carrying things, like big black poles and what looks like a camera. Daniel wants to press into Zia's side, but Sam's next to him, so he squeezes round his shoulders instead.

"They're the camera people" Zia says to him, crouching down so Daniel can hear her, her breah tickling his ear. "They're just here to set up the cameras so they'll be all ready when you get back."

Daniel squirms, pushing his face into Zia's arm this time. He hadn't forgotten about the cameras, but he doesn't want to look at them, and then maybe they'll go away.

Zia pats him towards the living room, and Daniel shuffles forward, trying to keep slightly in front of Sam. He can see Daddy's friend Anna through the French doors, tidying up the table. Mummy's sitting on the sofa, with Rachel brushing something onto her cheeks.

Zia taps Daniel's shoulder. "Here you go-"

Daniel trots forward, holding out the paper flowers he made yesterday at school. They put coloured tissue paper in a paper vase and Jenn helped them fold them together to make a flower shape. Daniel had wanted to give that to Zia, but he hadn't had time to make two, and Jenn had asked if he wouldn't rather give that one to Mummy, in a way that grown-ups do when they want you to say yes.

"Happy Mother's Day" he says, because it's what's written inside the card that Zia took him and Sam to pick out on Friday on the way home. It's got Peppa Pig on the front.

Mummy gives him a big, wide smile, but it's like her eyes take a second to catch up. "Oh, that looks nice, sweetie-" She takes the flowers carefully, turning them over and over in her hands, as though she's not quite sure what to do with them. "Very nice, boys-"

Sam gurgles at the card, but that's probably just because he's seen Peppa Pig. But Mummy puts her hands on his shoulders and presses her mouth into his hair, before she moves him back again, once she's kissed him, carefully, like at school when they have to line up the toys to tidy at the end of the day.

Daniel lets her do the same to him, feels himself pressed flat against her chest for a moment, his chin over her shoulder. He can smell perfume and some of Mummy's lipstick makes his cheek feel sticky. He tries to wipe it off when she lets go.

"I tell you where that would look good" Mummy says, and Daniel glances at the fireplace, where Aaron's mummy puts all his cards, but Mummy's already getting up, walking away towards the French doors, and Daniel realises that she's not talking to him. "Tom? Wouldn't this look good on the table-"

Daddy's friend Tom appears. Mummy's showing him Daniel's flowers, even though Daniel didn't say she could.

"Wouldn't that look good on the table, when we're eating-" Mummy's saying, turning them both over in her hands, like she's deciding whether they're good enough or not. She turns to put the card on the table. Daniel presses his head into Zia's side. He can't remember if Mummy read it at all.

* * *

"Imagine how fucked we'll be-" Torsten says, peering at the carton of eggs anxiously, as if wondering how they work. "If they catch us preparing the casually unprepared food now."

Rachel slaps his hand away, whisking the eggs a little. "They're meeting Bradby in the park, so the question doesn't arise."

"OK. Imagine how fucked we'll be if they come in and find us sticking up photographs on the noticeboard."*

"Not Hampstead Heath again?"

"No." Rachel glances up at him, beating the eggs a little harder. "Tom managed to find a little park, somewhere-it's got a kids' play area, that kind of thing. Plus, they thought it might get the kids a bit more excited, playing somewhere new."

Torsten grimaces slightly.

"It wasn't that bad last time" Rachel says, reproachfully. "They were OK."

"They were only on camera for two minutes" Torsten points out."

Rachel raises an eyebrow. "Because you're the life of every party."

Torsten leans against the kitchen cabinet, apparently abandoning any attempt at helping. "We can't really do anything but try and shut the story down" he reminds her, perhaps guessing her train of thought from her eyes darting around the room regretfully.

"Yeah, by filming in the fucking thing."

"It shows we're not ashamed" Torsten argues, almost painfully wide-eyed. "It shows we don't have anything to hide."

"We do have something to hide" Rachel says, cracking another egg a little too hard on the edge of the bowl, shaking her hand to get rid of the sticky line of yolk. "The giant extra kitchen on the bottom floor."

"It's not like your dad was much better."

Rachel stops warningly.

Torsten holds up his hands. "Sorry. It's just, your dad was way more working-class than Ed and he still didn't come across convincingly. And Ed doesn't even have the whole Welsh mining people thing to fall back on. The best thing we can do is try to be upfront. People vote for Cameron."

"People know Cameron's posh." Rachel keeps her eyes on the bowl, still wrestling with the part of her that's fighting to climb out of her mouth and defend her father. "People know that about him. They just-"

She has to fight with the words a little.

"-don't care."

She glances at Torsten, who's looking a little lost, eyes fixed on his feet, brow furrowed. Rachel softens slightly, regarding him with a mixture of pity and exasperation. "What do you have to work on?"

"Oh-" Torsten brightens slightly. "We're just focusing on ways to get Ed more trusted to the voters. The cost of living stuff is going over well, we're thinking of some sort of visual metaphor-some sort of _stone-"_

Rachel nods, only half-listening, eyes resting unseeingly on the eggs as she stirs them lackadaisically, trying not to let her thoughts drift back to her father.

* * *

* * *

"We can have a nice swing in the park, can't we?" Justine looks over her shoulder, casting her eye over the boys' clothes one more time. The park Tom's chosen is nearby, but he said they should drive there.

"They'll probably film part of the walk home" he'd said. "But we don't want it to start raining or have to redo your hair, so we'll have the car pick you up halfway, once they've done the filming."

Justine glances at Ed, who's driving, lip caught between his teeth. He's been quiet ever since he got home from the debate rehearsal yesterday-but then, he'd been at a rally in Birmingham, and then got the train to meet Torsten for the journey to Kent so she'd presumed he was just tired. She'd been asleep when he'd come to bed so they'd only really had time to go over some of the lines this morning while Zia was getting the boys up.

She peers over her shoulder critically. The boys both look a little downcast, Sam with those shadows under his eyes that he seems to have inherited from Ed-Justine feels a wave of irritation, wondering if they could cover them with some sort of powder. He looks a little pale, and Justine hopes it's just the early morning light, that he's not coming down with something-it's the last thing everyone needs.

She claps her hands, hoping to wake the boys up a little. "We can have a swing when we get into the park" she says, glancing at both of them in turn, keeping her own smile bright. "While Mr Tom talks to Mummy and Daddy. And then we can have a look at the playground, can't we?" She's not sure how often the boys have been there before-she's sure Zia's taken them at some point.

Sam perks up very slightly, his eyes brightening a little. Justine smiles encouragingly. Daniel still looks a little reluctant, his eyes drifting to the window, but hopefully he'll perk up once they get there. They're going to a park, after all.

She glances at Ed, tapping his wrist gently, prompting him. Ed's still staring through the windscreen, lip caught between his teeth.

After a second, he glances back at her, an odd, caught expression in his eyes, but he shakes his head slightly. "Yeah, i-i-i-" He looks at the boys, quickly, then away, almost like a flinch. "Do you think there'll-maybe there'll be a see-saw for you-"

"Yeah-" Justine looks back at them, widening her eyes, hoping to see some spark of delight in return. "And do you know-" She's suddenly wondering what they'll do if they don't perk up by the time they get to the park, seizing upon an idea. "When we get there, try and use our outdoor voices, OK? Be nice and loud for Mr Tom to see you." She reaches over and taps Sam's nose.

"But-but remember to quieten down when Mummy tells you-"

"Yeah-"

"How about we have a th-special signal?" Ed turns round at the traffic lights, and Justine nods, feeling a jab of pride at the sight of him entering into the spirit of it. "If we-say-if Mummy taps your head-"

"Yeah, if I pat your head-" She reaches over and pats Sam's curls. Sam goes still but Daniel leans away.

"That means Mr Tom's going to be-"

"So then you be nice and quiet, all right?" Justine gives the boys a smile. Daniel stares back at her balefully, then turns to gaze out of the window.

But Justine's heartened as she turns back to the front. She pats Ed's wrist again, feeling more affectionate towards him suddenly. Ed gives her a smile-a small smile, but it's definitely there, and Justine decides that's enough.

* * *

"If you take Flo to Shaun The Sheep-" Sam is tucking her hair behind her ears, playing with her hoop earrings. "What time are we going to be meeting up for dinner-"**

"I was going to take Flo to the playground in St James' Park-" Dave flips his red box closed, adjusting his fleece jacket. "If we meet there with the others afterwards-"*

"Good, because I was thinking that depending on what time the film finishes-"

"It'll probably be pretty early-it's a kids' film, it's not going to last two hours."

Sam taps the Mother's Day flowers that were handed out at church that morning, now gathered together in a vase on the dresser. She glances back at David, tugging her jumper back into place. David swallows, his eyes resting on her. "You know-Geordie's going to get in touch with Liz about arranging the interview this week."

Sam stills, looking back at him. "But-"

"Yeah, no full-on photos of the kids. They'll only be there for the first few minutes, it'll be mostly just-"

"Mostly just me" Sam finishes for him, softly. "I know."

They're both silent for a moment, Sam's gaze holding his in the mirror. "Is that what you're thinking about? The interview?"

Dave struggles for a moment. "No." He lets himself move forward, his hand reaching forward to take Sam's. "I was-Alex rang me earlier."

Briefly, he recounts the details of the phone call. Sam watches him in the mirror, outlining her lips in palest pink as she listens.

"It doesn't sound like he knew about it" Sam says, when David's talked himself into silence, something he usually only does around Sam. Or Miliband, he thinks, belatedly.

"But that's the thing." David rubs at the back of his neck, his hand still playing with Sam's distractedly. "Even if he didn't, Patrick did. I mean, he noticed. He noticed-" He hesitates, the word hovering silently between them. _Us._

"And the thing is-he's not-I tried-"

 _Answering_ , David thinks silently. He's texted Miliband three times since the phone call with Alex this morning, wanting to find out if it's come as much out of nowhere for him, as it has for David. Wanting to know what he'd said to Patrick, if Patrick had told him what had happened, or if he's left Miliband in the dark.

Wanting to know, in general.

Sam draws back, sitting on the edge of their bed with him, her hand still in his. "Where does it end?" she says, so steadily that it takes David a moment to look up at her. "What?"

"This. Where does it end?" Sam's blue eyes, darker than David's own, look back into his. Elwen and Flo have his paler, sky blue eyes, Nancy and Ivan the only of their children to inherit Sam's dakrer colour.

He shakes his head slightly. "I-"

"It has to end somewhere, Dave" Sam says, her voice hitching slightly. "When does it end? After the election?"

"I don't know. I-yes-I-"

What David can't tell her is that he doesn't know. He doesn't know when this is going to end, because he's still not entirely certain how it started. He's still not entirely sure what this _is._

"It has to end" he says, to himself as much as to her. "It has to. We-it's not going to-it's just for-"

"The election" Sam says, softly. "Is it?"

David nods, too quickly. "It-" He traces his lips with his tongue nervously, rubbing the back of his neck again. "It-it has to be-it-"

It can't be anything else.

It has to be just a way of stress relief. Of dealing with the tension. Other people in politics have to have done similar. They have to. Hell, David's had Gavin walk in and report similar. It happens more often than anyone would realise.

It just doesn't usually involve the bloody Prime Minister.

And his Leader Of The Opposition.

But that's all it is.

What else can it be? The idea of-David has to fight down a wave of almost hysterical laughter that wants to rise in his throat-of taking Miliband _out-_

On a _date-_

Being in a _relationship_ with him-

Jesus.

"It will end" he says to Sam, more fiercely than he intends to. "It has to. It-"

Sam's eyes hold his. "Do you want it to?"

David tells himself he doesn't hesitate before he says yes.

* * *

"So you guys lead the way-" Tom gestures them ahead of him with his easy smile. Ed tries not to think of the same easy confidence Cameron wears on a daily basis, tries not to think of it as _private school,_ with the contempt that clings all too naturally to the phrase whenever he thinks of it around Cameron.

Alastair's wide-eyed, disbelieving look slams into his thoughts again, and Ed wrenches them away.

"Just-the cameras will just switch on at some point so we'll just be chatting-" Tom falls into step easily at their side, and Ed's Tom steps forward. "Can we just-here, let's have the boys in the middle again-maybe get Daniel's hood down-"

Ed fiddles with Daniel's hood awkwardly-Daniel's wriggling, twisting his face away, and Ed makes several half-hearted attempts to hold him in place, still wrestling his thoughts away from Alastair's words yesterday, until Justine reaches over Sam's head and tugs the hood down, a little too roughly.

"That's-" Tom steps back, taking a look. "That's good, yeah-"

Justine swings Sam's hand, a little too hard. "See? There are the cameras-"

Sam makes a doubtful noise, swinging his arms. "One-two-three-" he burbles, looking up at his parents, dark curls bobbing as he turns his little head.

"One-two-three?" other Tom asks, walking at their side, and Ed, even through the mess of his own thoughts, feels a prickle of worry down his spine, unable to stop himself glancing at Daniel, wondering if he remembers Justine's signal, and if Ed wants him to or not.

"Yes-" Justine's smile is too bright, as she shakes Sam's hand slightly. "Yes, shall we-shall we have a swing-"

Ed wills Daniel to look at him, jiggling his wrist slightly. "You-you like th-swinging, don't you th-sweetie-"

Daniel gives a little shrug, but he doesn't look up at Tom and blurt anything out.

"Now, we're gonna be filming-" the other Tom says, hands in his pockets as he walks. "So just try to forget about the cameras there-"

"We can do that, can't we?" Justine turns the smile on Daniel, who looks away, resolutely refusing to meet her eyes. "For Daddy-"

Ed sees Tom's smile flicker very slightly, but it's gone before he knows it.

"Right-" Justine grasps Sam's wrist with both hands-Ed thinks it looks a little too tight, but Sam doesn't say anything. "Are we ready, chaps?"

Ed tugs Daniel's wrist, lifting it slightly, trying to put all thoughts of Alastair and yesterday and particularly Cameron out of his mind.

"One-" Justine eyes him meaningfully, over the boys' heads.

"Two-three- _wheeee-"_ Ed lifts Daniel slightly, a little slower than Justine, so the boys swing out of rhythm with each other, their fingers slipping loose-they're holding hands, Ed realises, and for some reason, the sight aches in his chest.

"One-" Justine gives Sam a widening of her eyes. "You can be nice and loud, sweetie-"

Tom's brow furrows slightly, but he doesn't say anything.

"One-two-three-"

 _"Wheeee!"_ Sam beats them to it this time, his little face creasing in dimples and Ed feels a rush of relief.

Justine laughs, the sound almost reaching her eyes, and Ed swings Daniel's hand, heart thumping a little slower now, at the thought that maybe this could work, after all.

* * *

"One-two-three- _wheee!"_

Daddy's hand hurts a little bit around Daniel's wrist. But Mummy's is tighter whenever she swings him, so Daniel's glad he's holding Daddy's hand. He tries to squeeze Sam's, to make him smile a bit more.

"One-" Daddy's looking at him, and Daniel doesn't know whether to look at him or the camera. Last time they were in the park, Mum told them to look at the camera, but this time she said not to, so Daniel doesn't know.

"Two-three-" Mummy's other hand comes round and grabs Sam's wrist, so she's pulling him up with both hands. _"Wheee!"_

Daniel's feet go out from under him, and then Mummy and Daddy are swinging him up, and Daniel likes swinging, but it's high, and Sam goes past him, so high up that Daniel thinks he's going to fall, and Sam's hand gets tugged out of Daniel's, so Daniel has to run towards him to make sure he's still there.

Sam's blinking under his curly hair, his cheeks all red from the cold, like he's not quite sure what's happening. Daniel wraps his hand around his sleeve. "Are you OK?" he says, and Sam nods, eyes darting about, like he's trying to find out where he is.

Daniel wants to ask, because he doesn't remember ever coming here with Mum or Daddy before, but then Mum told them to keep shouting, and Daniel doesn't know if they're supposed to say anything else.

But the new man called Tom is talking to Mummy and Daddy, and Daniel thinks they were told to shout, so he does. _"One-"_

"The park is a very regular part of your lives, I'm assuming?" the man called Tom is saying, which is a big word. Daniel doesn't know what it means, but he can't ask, because he doesn't know if he's supposed to say anything else.

 _"Two-three-"_ Sam's joining in now, staring straight ahead, but chanting like Daniel. _"Whee!"_

But Mum and Daddy don't lift them up this time.

"Yes-" Mummy's looking at the man called Tom. Daniel frowns, squeezes Sam's hand.

 _"One-two-"_ Even though they're shouting, Mummy and Daddy aren't _looking,_ Daddy's just nodding at the man called Tom.

 _"Three-"_ Daniel waits for them to look at them. _"Wheee!"_

"And it-can it-"

Daniel tugs at Daddy's wrist, because Mummy told them to shout, she told them to, but Daddy's not looking.

_"One-"_

"-and it runs off a little bit of energy?" the man called Tom's saying, and Daniel knows what energy is from school, it's something in your body called a force that lets you do things, but they're not supposed to say anything else.

 _"-two-three-"_ Daniel looks at Mummy over Sam's head, but she's looking at the man called Tom. _"Wheee-"_

Dad tugs at Daniel's hand, but his fingers have slipped down, so they're wrapped around his wrist, but Daniel was told to shout, so he's shouting.

"Er-yes-" Mummy's laughing, but her face is all tight, like she's not sure if she really wants to or not.

 _"One-"_ Daniel takes in a deep breath, so he can shout even louder, and tugs at Sam's hand, to make him do the same thing. _"Two-three-wheeeee!"_

"Definitely!" Daddy's voice is loud, and Daniel thinks he's going to swing them, but the smile on Daddy's face is too big, like it's hurting.

"And it-and the kids' energy as well-" Daddy's smiling at Daniel, but it's like he's not seeing him. He tugs at his arm again, and Daniel frowns, because Daddy's not doing it, he and Mummy are just _laughing_ even though nothing's really funny.

 _"One-"_ He shouts it as loudly as possible, so that his chest hurts, tugs Sam's hand, so he knows to do it too, feeling the hurt, angry feelings crumpling in his chest again that had been there when he'd thrown Alexa's pencil case.

 _"Two-"_ Sam's shouting as loudly next to him, and Daniel feels something calm the angry feelings a little bit, like he's a sea that Sam's patting down.

_"Three-wheeee!"_

"Aaahhh-" Daddy's looking at Daniel the way he does sometimes, like he doesn't know quite what to do with him. Like he's scared.

"So you have to come to the park-what, five times a day, or six times a day, or-" The other man called Tom is making his voice bouncy, the way grown-ups do when something really isn't that funny, but Mummy and Daddy are laughing, the way grown-ups laugh when they don't really want to.

" _One-"_ Daniel puts his head back so he can shout even louder, so that his voice can go all the way up to the sky.

 _"Two-"_ His and Sam's voices crash into each other. _"Three-wheeee!"_

"Shhhh-"

Mummy's hand pats his head, a little bit too hard, and Daniel wants to wriggle away, because he doesn't like it, but then he remembers that that's the secret signal that Mum said in the car, for him and Sam to be quiet. Daniel doesn't want to be quiet, but Mummy patted him hard, and that was the signal.

"Well, I think if we don't get out during-on a weekend-"

Daniel puts his head down, holds onto Sam's hand, not saying anything, the way they're meant to.

"I think it goes a bit bananas-" Mummy's saying, with that big smile Daniel doesn't like.

"Yeah-"

"Then it-then it-they go a bit bananas-" Dad's tugging at Daniel's wrist, and smiling like he wants Daniel to smile too, even though he's only saying what Mum said, and Daniel doesn't want to smile, so he turns his face away.

"So they're crawling off the ceiling-"

Mummy's laughing, but the laugh sounds like it's been laughed loads of times before. "All of us go a bit bananas!"

"All of us go a bit bananas-" Dad's tugging Daniel's wrist again, his eyes going all wide, and Daniel turns his head away, but Daddy keeps tugging, and so Daniel takes a deep breath.

_"One-two-"_

"Daniel-"

_"-three-wheee-"_

"Shhh-" Mummy's eyes have gone all hard, and Daniel likes something about that. It's easier when Mummy's eyes are hard, when she's not trying to make them go all soft. "Daniel, don't be noisy-"

"One-two-"

"Now, before we get to-"

"-three-" Sam joins in this time too, Daniel swinging his arm, even though they can't lift themselves off the ground. _"Wheeee-"_

"Chaps, we need to be-"

"Before we get to the playground, we just need a couple of-a couple of close-ups of the boys-"

"Right, OK-" and the smaller camera's wheeling towards them, like a little creature. Daniel laughs at first, but that makes Mummy smile bigger, so he stops.

"Right, if we could just have them-just keep talking to them-" one of the people behind the camera is calling.

Daniel doesn't know who he means at first, but then Mummy's saying "All right, gents, shall-we-shall we have some big smiles, like when we were swinging?" and the big black camera's only a few inches away from them, like it's about to eat them.

"Do you want to have a look at it?" Daddy's saying, with the smile that looks like it doesn't know if it wants to be there or not. "Are you all right-"

Daniel covers Sam's wrist with his hand, ready to step in front of him if the camera leaps forward. "Like Octonauts" he says to him, trying to tug his hand away from Daddy's. "Pinto and Peso-"

Sam smiles then, his big, gappy smile, and even though Daniel doesn't want to smile, he keeps his hand tight round Sam's wrist, while the camera's there next to them, keeping them safe.

* * *

"Maybe-maybe one of you move them up and down-"

It should have been simple, filming in a playground-doubtless, Tom (both Toms) had thought it would be, which was why they'd suggested it. But that was without taking into account the boys wandering back and forth every few moments, their eyes darting to another bright colour to grab at, to run towards, even as Ed fruitlessly tries to keep hold of their shoulders.

They've managed to perch them on a seesaw eventually-Daniel's got his back to the camera, which Ed thinks might not have been an accident.

(Cameron would snort and say there are no accidents when it comes to photoshoots.)

(But Ed's trying not to think about Cameron.)

But Sam's sat on the other end, and now Ed's standing at Daniel's, waiting for further instructions from their Tom, who's milling about with Matt at the cameras, a few feet away. Ironically, Tom muttered in an undertone that he's pretty sure this is more for the publicity shots than the filming, but then, either way, the cameras are always rolling.

"Should we-" Ed tries to hold Daniel still, who's wriggling, as Anna squints at the seesaw. "Shall we move it up and down?"

"Try it slowly" calls the call from one of the cameramen. "We just need a shot of them in the air for this one, we don't need you-talking or anything-"

Ed waits until he's got a fleeting thumbs-up from their Tom before he turns and slowly, awkwardly lowers Daniel's side of the see-saw so that Sam's sitting up in the air on the other end. Justine should probably take the other end, but she's saying something to Bradby, the same smile fixed in place. Ed feels a surge of something annoyed and prickling in his chest, and it isn't helped by the fact his phone buzzes for the third time since they reached the bloody park.

It's not work, he knows without looking, or Tom would have hit the sky by now. There's only one person Ed can picture texting him this annoyingly, this repetitively, in a manner positively _designed_ to irritate and it's the one person Ed's not meant to be thinking about.

Which, probably, is exactly why he's decided to provide such a distraction.

"OK, and-let's just get one the other way up-"

Ed nearly catches his chin on the seat of the seesaw as he lifts it, with some difficulty. He feels an angry jolt as he looks at Justine, who hasn't noticed what they're doing, and thinks, before he can stop himself, _Give me some fucking help._

"That's it-" Tom calls out, but then Sam's seat, which has been lowering slowly to the ground, is suddenly jolted or jiggled as Sam's feet touch the floor, and he slides backwards, landing on the soft play floor with a surprised bump.

It isn't a fall-Sam was already on the ground when he slid off-but it takes him by surprise and Ed sees his little face crumple in the second before the seesaw, now dangerously off-balance, rises sharply into the air. Ed grabs Daniel under the arms at the last moment, manages to half-pull, half-lift him off, almost getting a shoe in the chest, and by the time he's successfully extricated himself and Daniel from the seesaw, Sam's already started to cry.

"Oh-sweetie-" Justine blinks, as though only just remembering why they're there at all, and she bends down to Sam a second too late. Ed catches the crease in her brow, the faint flicker of annoyance across her face, because he feels it in his own chest too, and it's followed a second later, as he sees Sam's cheeks, already flushed and damp, by a wrench of something like guilt.

"OK, let's just regroup-" Anna has appeared at Justine's side, patting at Sam's hair sympathetically. Justine is half-hugging him awkwardly, one of Sam's legs on the ground, Justine bent awkwardly at the waist, as though not sure if she's planning to pick him up or not. Sam, for his part, is leaning away from her, head tilting back from the circle of her arms around him.

"OK-" Tom claps his hands. "Maybe-they were thinking we could try each of you-you taking one of the boys each and maybe that-that will be easier to sort of integrate into the film-" The other Tom stays tactfully silent at this, but then, why wouldn't he, Ed thinks-he's the presenter, not the technician. More style than substance.

The words ring sour even to Ed, and abruptly, once again, he's thinking of Cameron.

His phone, as if in sympathy, buzzes again.

Ed resists the mad urge to throw it to the floor and stamp it.

"But isn't it-" Justine's letting go of Sam now, one arm still positioned half-heartedly around his shoulder. "You can-here, be a big boy, sweetie-isn't it meant to be show-a family unit, won't it look-"

Ed feels an irrational wave of annoyance, given that he'd been thinking the same thing, and glances away, trying to tamp it down. He becomes aware that he'd let go of Daniel several moments ago and, glancing around, momentarily panic-stricken, is relieved to spot him looking up at the cameras. One of the burly crew is crouched next to him, and he shoots Ed an odd look that lasts for less than a second.

But Ed doesn't have time to dwell on it, because, even as the cameras are being carefully positioned on either end of the see-saw, Justine is nodding, mouth a tight line, as she seems to be losing the argument at the other end with Tom. "It's just-lets us get it done more quickly-gives you some time to calm him down-"

Something tightens in Justine's expression, but she just nods, acquiescing with a "Yeah, OK-come-come on, Mister-" to Sam, who doesn't hear her, and eventually Justine has to lift him under his arms and carry him back, Sam still not looking at her once.

Ed's so busy watching this and trying firmly not to let his thoughts stray anywhere near Cameron that he doesn't even notice Daniel being lifted back onto the seesaw next to him for a few moments, until the seat bobs slightly as it sinks down under his son's weight.

"Oh-I would have-" Ed manages, a little belatedly, to the crew member who clearly lifted Daniel on.

The crew member, already backing away to their work, looks Ed in the eye for a second too long. "Yeah" he says. "But you didn't."

Ed's saved from answering this, by Tom's hand on his elbow. "Right, you come round this end and get lifting-"

"Are we filming?" Ed asks, trying not to mutter as he takes his place at the other end, hoping the seat doesn't come down on his fingers.

Tom rolls his eyes. "For God's sake" he mutters, hand brushing Ed's shoulder for the briefest of moments. "We're always bloody filming."

Ed doesn't have time to consider the implications of this before Tom steps out of the shot, and says "OK, just-when you're ready, they can-camera's already going-"

Ed tries to smile at him over his shoulder, catching sight, out of the corner of one eye, of one of the crew adjusting Daniel on the swing. "I'm very tempted to sit on this, but I think on balance-"

"Oh go on, then-" Tom's face creases in that easy grin and Ed looks away, before it can remind him too much of Cameron.

He wonders if he should have checked over his shoulder to see how Justine and Anna are getting on with Sam, but he focuses on moving the seesaw up and down slowly, awkwardly, hoping against hope that Daniel will start smiling.

Daniel's cheeks crease slightly in what could be a grin. "Faster, Daddy-" he says, and something about the name in Daniel's voice sends warmth into Ed's chest and rings an odd wrong note between his ribs at the same time. "Faster, faster-faster, faster-fast--"

"This is good exercise for me, th-sweetie" The words are a little too thick in Ed's mouth, but he thinks he gets them out OK, manages to fill the silence over Daniel's voice dwindling away.

Daniel, miracle of miracles, tilts his head contemplatively before he says, a little surge of triumph in his voice, "It _is_ exercise!"

Ed's so relieved he can barely speak.

"It _is_ exercise" he settles for, weakly, his heart beating so hard he's sure it must be visible through his coat, as he moves the seesaw up and down, relieved at the way Daniel smiles, even giggles slightly at the other end, and he doesn't think, as he watches his son rise and fall through the air, whether or not Daniel is watching the gaze of the cameras the whole time.

* * *

Sam is spinning round on something. Justine's watching him, arms folded, still trying to calculate what they need to do now that the see-saw's fallen through. Tom's moved the cameras over to the swings, pointing out it'll be easier to film a conversation there. Justine's watching Sam, wondering whether or not to try and draw his attention over to the swings, or to just lift him.

"Shall-shall we go on the th-swings, sweetie?" Ed is saying to Daniel, but Daniel is wriggling in his grasp, struggling towards the slide instead. "No, it's wet-"

Justine's attention is distracted by Sam suddenly spinning away from the toy, arms out, head back, making one of his baby sounds. She eyes him uncertainly, wondering whether he's playing or not, not wanting to prompt a return of the tears which had derailed things earlier.

"Are you all right?" she asks awkwardly.

She supposes it'll work for the cameras anyway, and steps forward, lowering her arms to him. "Are you all right-"

Daniel's voice is rising to a complaining pitch across the playground. "Don't want to _touch_ the swings-"

Sam's heavier than she's used to as she lifts him-she hasn't carried him much since he was a toddler, when he wasn't a weight on her hip, the way he is now, and she has to juggle him into place, trying not to look over at Ed, who's trying to persuade Daniel into one of the swings, which Anna is cleaning off for him.

"Right-" Justine can picture the awkward look Ed's wearing out of the corner of her eye and she tries to focus on Sam to muffle the spike of exasperation that rises in her chest at the indecision he always shows in moments such as these, ambling back and forth between what to do.

"Don't want to touch them-" Daniel's voice is rising to a complaining pitch, and Justine, hoping to keep the camera lens away from Ed attempting to lift Daniel into one of the seats, laughs brightly, hoping to jostle Sam into a giggle too. But Sam looks away, his head tilting back, gaze climbing up to the sky.

* * *

"Do you want to change it round this time-" Tom asks, as the other Tom moves behind the swings, waiting for them to settle the boys. "So-you go behind Daniel, Justine-"

Justine half-juggles, half-lowers Sam into the swing, leaving him sitting there looking slightly surprised. Ed moves forward to take his swing, while Justine moves to Daniel's, who's already been sitting there for several minutes and is starting to look cross and bored.

"OK, so-" Matt calls round from where he's inspecting the cameras-one's standing to the side of the swingset, filming the boys in profile, and the others slightly ahead-Justine can see some through the fence as well for some further shots. "Just-start swinging them-and-we'll just be filming, and then Tom will start the conversation-"

"OK-" Justine lifts Daniel's swing, pushing it forward, then back. "Shall we-are we having a swing, Mister-"

Ed, next to her, follows her lead, pushing Sam back and forth. "Shall we-are we going to try and have a hundred th-swings, th-sweetie-"

"That's right." Justine jiggles Daniel's swing a little, hoping to get a smile out of him, but he's still wriggling round. "Shall we-do you remember how to count to a hundred, Daniel, shall we do that-"

Daniel makes an annoyed sound. "Do it _faster-"_

"Do it faster?" Justine tamps down the brief flare of annoyance, pulls his swing a little higher, pushes it a little harder. "All right- _wheeee-"_

Sam joins in a little more now, his legs kicking as he swings back and forth. _"Wheee-"_

Justine's encouraged when, a few swings later, Daniel finally joins in too, adding a "Wheee-" as he leans forward slightly, peering at the cameras. He's not smiling, but it could be worse.

She looks over Daniel's head to see one of the camera aides gesturing at them, Anna's face looking a little pinched from the cold.

"Talk to them-" says one of the women, with a slight frown on her face, saying something in an undertone that Justine can't hear.

"What's that- _wheee-"_ she tries to Daniel, who's still wriggling, twisting about in his seat.

"Dare I say-" Justine looks at Tom, Daniel babbling something to himself. "That there are swings in Downing Street-"

Justine tries to catch Ed's eye, but he's looking at Sam, pushing him firmly. Daniel says something, in a high, complaining little voice, but Justine's too busy trying to shape her answer to the question, trying to laugh, to not look like they're overstepping it-

"Though I think that there'd be only one-" Tom laughs, so Justine does too, right before Daniel's voice rises into a cracked little sound that ends on _"-please-"_ and Justine, turning back to him, notices that in all his wriggling, his leg's caught up in the seat.

"All right-" She grabs the swing as it comes back towards her, bringing it to a halt.

"-that could be a complication-" Justine's half-turned towards Tom, trying to turn Daniel towards her, conscious the whole time of the cameras, taking this in, trying to keep a smile on her face.

"Stop-" She tries to laugh with the words, tries not to grip Daniel too hard as he wriggles. "I've got a small crisis-"

* * *

Daniel's leg hurts. He was twisting and wriggling in the seat because Mum was being boring and looking at the man called Tom and then Daniel's leg had come up and he couldn't get it down and his knee was by his face and his foot _hurts._

"Stop, Mum-" He's twisting around in the seat, trying to see Mum's face, but she's not looking. "My foot's _hurting-"_

But Mum just pushes him away again, and he swings up into the air, his foot twisting and hurting, and the man called Tom's saying something and Daniel feels himself start to cry, as Mummy's hand pushes him away again, hot tears prickling his eyes.

"Stop- _please-"_

"All right-"

Then the swing's swinging back and Mum's hands have got hold of it, but Daniel's foot's still stuck and Mummy's just looking at Daddy and the man called Tom and laughing.

"Stop, I've got a small crisis-"

But Daddy isn't looking and he's still pushing Sam. "That counts as a measuring the curtains question-"

"Right, right-"

"Measuring the swings-" Daddy looks like he's not sure whether the other man will laugh or not, but then Mummy tugs at Daniel's foot and it _hurts._

"Oh-" Daniel's trying to pull away from her. _"Owwww-"_

"Right, OK-" Mummy's still smiling but her eyes aren't, and she's tugging at Daniel more. "We've got an issue-"

Daniel's crying now, his eyes wet with hot tears, but he tries to smile, because Mummy said to smile. "It hurts-it _hurts-"_

"-we've got an issue-"-Mummy's laughing but her hand is tight under his arm, dragging him up out of the swing.

"Oh, right, yeah-" the other man's saying, and Daddy just says, with a quick glance at them, "Oh, right-you _have_ got a bit of an issue-"

"A leg issue-" Mummy's laughing, but she half-drags Daniel back out of the seat and then she pulls his leg free, plopping him back down. "There you go, Mister-"

Daniel's sniffling and Mummy goes still next to him for a second, before she says "Don't be silly" in her voice that bounces like it doesn't really want to. "There, it's all fixed now-"

Daniel's legs are both where they're meant to be, but his foot still hurts a bit, and his nose is running, and he doesn't really want to swing anymore, but then Daddy's friend Anna says-"Justine, his nose is a bit-his nose is running-" and then there's a tissue being dabbed under his nose.

"Now, don't be silly-" Mummy's smiling, her face next to his, but her eyes are sharp, like she's waiting for Daniel to do something wrong. "We're going to have a nice swing, all right, Mr D?"

It's not all right and Daniel doesn't really want to swing anymore, but then Mummy's face disappears and his nose is dry again and then Mummy's pushing his back and Daniel's swinging away from her again, up into the air.

* * *

"Zia got to a hundred and eleven-"

Sam likes swinging. He likes it when Zia takes them to swing, though she takes them to another playground, not this one, and she always counts when they're swinging and each time, they all try to get to a higher number.

"Want to-Zia get it again, Mum-" Sam's looking over his shoulder, trying to make Mummy look at him, but she just keeps staring straight ahead, like Sam's not there. "A hundred and eleven-"

"Ah, right-" Daddy's saying it like he's trying to be interested, but then the new man says "So the boys do a bit of leafleting for the Red Team?" and Sam doesn't want to talk about leafleting, it's lots of walking when he gets too tired of his scooter and it's often too cold or too hot and it makes his legs hurt.

"A hundred and eleven-"

"That's right-" Mummy's making her voice bounce.

"Scootering around-"

"Yeah-"

Sam's looking at Daddy, wanting Daddy to look at him. "A hundred and fifty- _seven-"_ he says loudly, so that Daddy has to hear.

But Daddy's looking away from him, at Mummy. "They have done a bit of leafleting with _you,_ haven't they?"

"Yes!" Mummy's voice is too loud and bright, not like it normally is. "We even-" Mummy's laughing, even though nothing's funny. "We even baked some cakes-"

Sam doesn't remember baking cakes.

" A hundred and fifty _seven-"_ he says again, his voice getting all knotty and tight because that's what Zia said they could get up to last time, but Mummy and Daddy aren't listening.

"And then you left them" Daddy's saying, and he's laughing, but there's something strange in his voice, like it's trying not to sound cross underneath.

"Been a rare-" Mummy's saying, but she and Daddy aren't looking at each other.

"So you actually baked some cakes and delivered them?" the other man's saying.

"Well-" Daddy says, but Sam doesn't want to watch anymore, because Mummy and Daddy aren't looking at him.

"A hundred and fifty seven" he says sadly, but Mummy and Daddy don't hear him at all.

* * *

"Been a rare-" Justine doesn't bake often; it's Zia who's made the cakes with the boys so far, though Justine keeps meaning to do it.

It reminds her of that article earlier in the week, the one that made Ed's advisers mouths pinch themselves into thin lines, and Justine pushes the swing harder, so she doesn't have to think about it.

"So you actually baked some cakes and delivered them?"

"Well-"

Sam's saying something, but Justine's suddenly alert to what Ed might say, the look on his face worrying her a little.

"Er-no, we-er-"

"I-can I just say-" and Justine glances at Ed, heartbeat quickening for a moment, but then-

"I did not bake the cakes" Ed says, and Justine feels her shoulders sink in relief even as Daniel's voice rises querulously-" _When-_ we-?"

"That's progress-" Tom's laughing. "Yeah, I bet-"

"Er-seriously-"

"Er, no-er-that was fo-" Justine finds it easier to laugh now, even to lean in and tap Tom's shoulder gently. "That was for the Labour Party team."

"Ah-ah-right-right-"

Justine looks for Ed's gaze again, but he's turned away from her, back to Sam's swing. "Fourteen" he says, though he hasn't counted anything before that.

"And then we went and delivered s-delivered leaflets-"

"Oi, Mum-" Daniel's voice rises in a whine again, and Justine feels annoyance clench in her chest-he's already taken up part of the filming with his leg.

"Sorry-" she says, forcing herself to keep the word calm as she steps forward to shove his swing again, even as Daniel says, annoyance heightening the words-"You're supposed to _push_ me-"

* * *

"And then we went and delivered s-delivered leaflets."

Daniel can't remember ever baking cakes with Mum-he and Sam baked some cakes with Zia, but that was ages and ages ago, back before the summer holidays, and he doesn't know what Mummy's talking about and she's not pushing him.

"Oi, Mum-"

Mummy's face looks different for a second, like annoyance snatches its' way in for a moment, but then it's gone. "Sorry-"

She pushes him again, but the look makes Daniel feel strange inside, all unsettled.

"You're supposed to _push_ me" he tells her.

"Fifteen-" Daddy's counting the amount of times he's pushed Sam, but he'll have to go for ages and ages to beat Zia.

"And the boys-" Mummy's saying, but Daniel's feeling angry now, because Mummy didn't bake the cakes with them, and Daniel can remember that even if it's ages ago, and he doesn't like having to pass the leaflets out, it hurts and it's boring.

"So do you-you can't have-"

"You're not-" Daniel knows you're not meant to interrupt but Mummy interrupts them all the time, when she's there with them. "-not-" He looks at the man called Tom, who isn't looking at him. "We don't-ahh-"

But Mummy just does a big smile and keeps pushing his swing and says "And the boys quite often ask if they can go again."

Daniel feels his face crumple up, he's so angry. He glares at Mummy over his shoulder but she doesn't look at him.

"Really?" says the man called Tom.

"Yeah-"

Daddy gives her a strange look, like he's not sure whether to say anything or not, but then he just says "Sixteen-"

Daniel glares at her over his shoulder, so that Mummy can't miss it when she has to turn around and push his swing again.

"You're not-" He raises his voice as loudly as he can get it. "You're not _talking_ to me!" He shouts it as hard as he can, as Mummy pushes him away, his voice rising up into the trees, so that even if the cameras can hear Mummy and Daddy, they have to hear him, too.

* * *

"Shh, mister-" Justine's tapping Daniel on the head. Ed glances at him, tries to keep counting for Sam. "Seventeen-eighteen-"

"You're not _talking_ to me-" Daniel says again, but he's quieter this time, looking away from her, and Ed feels something wrench in his chest.

"Nineteen-Mummy's just talking to Tom, th-sweetie" he volunteers, and Justine looks at him gratefully, and Ed doesn't know if that's what he wanted or not.

"Twenty-"

"Yeah, you just-keep having a swing, there" Justine says, tapping Daniel's shoulder, her tone slightly softer than it might otherwise have been. Daniel, though, just gives his mother a long, hard stare over his shoulder, that looks to Ed almost like a challenge.

"Lot of-" Tom interjects, saving them a little. "Lot of multi-tasking going on here-"

"Twenty-two-twenty-three-"

"Yes, exactly." Justine laughs, and Ed can hear the relief in the sound. He looks away, pushes Sam's swing again, tries not to think of Cameron and of what else he's "multi-tasking" with.

"Twenty-four-twenty-five-"

"Do you sometimes just-"

"Huh-" Ed hears Daniel huff slightly, but the sound's almost resigned.

"get-" Tom's laughing slightly. "Terminally knackered?"

"Twenty-six-"

"Twenty-seven-" Justine cuts in, and she laughs again. "Erm-I like going to bed early, I must say."

Which is useful, Ed thinks before he can stop himself, and then shoves the thought away. Because if there's no one to ask where he's been, he doesn't need to think about it, either.

"Twenty-seven-" he says. "Twenty-eight-"

"Zia always gets us-to-a hundred and fifty-seven-" Sam says, turning round to look at him under his dark curls. His eyes-his eyes are just like mine, Ed realises, in a strange jolt, that he must have thought before, but that somehow feels different, like a revelation, and he can suddenly remember being small and in a swing, waiting for Dad's hands to push him again, his own curls-blond, strangely-that he'd had then, bobbing in the air, holding onto each swing, a moment when Dad was there.

"Twenty-nine-" he says, and he looks away from Sam, because something about the memory curls in his throat, makes him push the swing a little harder.

"Zia gets us to a hundred and fifty seven-" Sam says again, and Ed looks away from him, and thinks _Don't, don't tell me that._

"Thirty-thirty-one-"

He can suddenly remember once before, noticing that Sam's eyes looked like his-right after he was born, walking out through a set of revolving doors to a small group of cameras, words already captured in a series of clicks. _He looks a bit like me-_

"Can we stop now?" Daniel's saying, boredom threading his voice thin, but Ed's trying not to remember his own voice then. _He looks a bit like me-_

"Thirty-two-thirty-three-"

He hadn't mentioned Sam's eyes, though, he doesn't think.

"Thirty-four-thirty-five-thirty-six-"

"I want fifty-seven-" Sam says, his little voice high, and Ed looks away from him, something filling his throat.

"So does it have an impact when you get to an ele-election-" Tom's still standing behind them, hands in pockets. "Or are you just as-adrenaline kind of keep you both through?"

"Thirty-seven-"

"Can we-we st-" Daniel's voice peals again, almost as though it doesn't really expect to be heard.

"I-"

"Don't know, I sort of just keep going, really-" Ed says it quickly, without thinking, but his voice is flat, almost as though realising how true it is. He keeps going. Like he's doing now.

"Thirty-eight-"

Keeps going. Even while David bloody Cameron lurks in the corner of his thoughts. Keeps pushing Sam on the swing.

"Well, you've got a lot of energy!" Justine laughs, as though he's the only one who spends hours of the night at work, opening the front door in the small hours, and Ed feels annoyance nettle, drawing tight in his stomach.

"Yeah" he says, trying not to let it crack into his voice. "Thirty-nine-"

"How annoying-" Tom laughs, sharpening the grating feeling in Ed's chest. He keeps his eyes on Sam's swing, not even sure why he's suddenly so irritated -whether it's the fact he's not the only one, or whether it's the fact that if this was someone else and their wife, Justine would never have been able to let the situation pass without commenting.

"He's got much more than me-yes-"-Justine's laughing.

"Yeah. Forty-"

Justine pushes Daniel's swing again, harder. "He's got much more than me" she says, and something in her tone isn't as smooth this time, and Ed tries not to glance over at her, even as his breath stills slightly, something about her voice sounding a warning note in his body.

"Yeah-" Ed can hear the uncertainty in Tom's voice, feel him glancing between them.

"Er-"

Ed keeps his eyes away from Justine, on Sam's swing, his heart beating faster, anger hardening underneath it in his chest.

"I'm not sure that's true, but-" His voice is a little louder, his words spiked now, and he doesn't look to see whether Justine's glanced at him or not.

"Forty-one" he says, though there's no way he's going to reach the number Sam wants.

* * *

"Can we st-" Daniel tries to say again, but Mummy's already talking to the man called Tom, saying "I-"

"Don't know, I sort of just keep going, really-" Daddy's saying, and Daniel kicks his legs, annoyed, twisting round in his swing, waiting for one of them to look at him.

"Thirty-eight-"

"Well, you've got a lot of energy!" Mummy's doing the big bright laugh that Daniel doesn't like, but when Daddy says "Yeah", he's not doing the smile he usually does.

"Thirty-nine-"

"How annoying!" The man called Tom's talking the way that grown-ups do, as though something's much funnier than it really is.

"He's got much more than me, yes-"

"Yeah. Forty-"

Mummy's voice is still bouncy, but Daddy's is flat, like a balloon with all the air let out of it.

"He's got much more than me" Mummy's saying, and Daniel wants to stop, but Mummy and Daddy aren't listening.

"Yeah-"

"Er-"

Daniel sighs, slumps his head back, bored.

"I'm not sure that's true, but-" Daddy says, and something in his voice makes Daniel look round at him, stare at him.

"Forty-one-" Daddy says, pushing Sam's swing, and for a moment, his gaze meets Daniel's, and he stares back. For barely a second, though neither of them realise it, they see the same expression on each other's face.

But then Daddy looks away and Mummy keeps pushing his swing, and Daniel sighs, throws his arms up in the air.

"I give up-" he announces, kicking his legs. "I give up-"

But Mummy still doesn't stop pushing his swing, and Daniel hadn't really expected her to.

"I give _up"_ he announces again, and he doesn't see his father glance at him for less than a second, as though, momentarily, stricken.

* * *

"Right!" Mummy gives him the smile again.

They're walking towards the park gate, with the cameras behind them. Daniel's getting cold now and he wants to go home, but he doesn't know if they're supposed to do the chant again or if he wants to.

"Right, shall we go back and have some eggs?"

"Only eggs?" the man called Tom says to Daddy, with a smile.

Daniel brightens up slightly. Whenever Zia makes them eggs, she puts cheese on them and she uses nice white bread. Mummy makes them eat brown bread with things that feel like grains in.

"Can't we have cheese on them?" he asks, but Daddy's looking at the man called Tom, not him, laughing slightly, though nothing's very funny. "Yeah, only eggs."

"No bacon" Mummy says, swinging Sam's hand, so that Daniel wonders if they're supposed to be shouting again.

"Seems disappointing-" says the man called Tom, but Daniel's already saying "I want _cheese_ on my eggs."

"Well, cheese isn't very healthy, is it, mister?" Mummy says. She tries to reach over and tap him on the nose, but Daniel tugs his head away, wriggling, rubbing his nose. His foot feels better now, but he still remembers Mummy wouldn't stop the swing.

"Zia always puts cheese on them" he says, and Mummy's hand tightens around his, but only for a second.

"Well, we can have them just with butter-" Mummy's saying, and Daniel drags his shoe along the floor, bored and annoyed and his legs aching.

"What did-where _is_ this?" he asks, looking up at the gate, because he's only been here once or twice and always with Zia, and he doesn't know why Mummy and Daddy brought them here, instead of somewhere like the bigger playground where there's ice creams.

Mum glances at Daddy, but doesn't answer. Daniel sucks in his breath, annoyed, and glances at Sam.

"So I'm not totally convinced that going to the park's-"-the man called Tom's saying, but Daniel's already chanting, aware of the microphone fastened into place under the hood of his coat and wanting to pull it off.

"One-two-three-"

"-reduced the energy level by more than-"

"No-" Mummy laughs, tugging at their wrists, like she's going to lift them up but it hurts a little.

"No-"

 _"Wheeee-"_ Sam joins in with him, tugging at Mum's sleeve so hard she nearly gets pulled down on one side.

The man called Tom is saying something but Daniel can't hear him over Sam.

"Yeah, they just-" Mummy's smile isn't reaching her eyes again. "As-I'm sorry-"

Sam throws his head back, dark curls getting tangled in his hood. _"Wheeeeeeee-"_

Mummy grips his arm very hard. Sam just glares back up at her, his eyes looking very big and dark to Daniel.

"Shhh-" Mummy's voice is a hiss. "Don't be noisy-"

Daniel doesn't like Mum tugging Sam's arm like that, so he pulls his hand out of hers' and runs around her, so that he can hold Sam's hand instead.

"One-two-three-" he counts with him, and he helps Sam jump next to him, so that by the time they walk out of the park, Sam's not looking at Mummy anymore, he's only looking at Daniel.

* * *

Ed feels his phone buzz again in his pocket as they're walking along the pavement. The cameras are on the other side now-they're just getting some tracking shots, Tom had said-so now the kids are running ahead, the strict formation they'd had to hold in the park broken. Justine doesn't seem to feel any need to call them back, and Ed thinks she's relieved to not have to hold onto them for a bit. Tom-Bradby-looks a little doubtful, though, walking alongside them, and he says "Are you sure-it's a busy road-"

"Daniel, th-Sam-" Ed feels his phone vibrate again in his pocket. "Th-slow down-"

Daniel ignores him. Sam's pretending to spin round, arms outstretched, but he's in the middle of the pavement.

"Daniel-"

"Daniel-Mr D-"

Daniel doesn't look back, but he veers away from either of his parents' voices and away from the road.

Ed's phone stops buzzing, but he knows full well who it was. He curls his hands into fists in his pockets, because for God's sake, why can't Cameron just leave him alone?

"I was thinking" Justine says, a little more brightly now she's not having to corral the children. "We could-do you want me to make the scrambled eggs with you-or-"

"No, that's probably-" Tom's squinting ahead at the boys. "It's probably better to-we could have some just of Ed with the kids-"

"Right-and-" Bradby comes to a halt. "The boys-"

Ed glances ahead to see Daniel wandering near the edge of the pavement again. "Stay in from the road" he calls, and Daniel does, albeit slowly.

He supposes Cameron isn't to know why Ed's not calling him; but it doesn't make him feel any less irked. All he can think about is Alastair's face yesterday, his own voice almost cracking around the words _Cameron's Craig?_

It had made him feel small and pathetic and needing-and, Ed thinks, shoving his hands in his pockets, even the fact Cameron might have been talking about them, him and Craig talking about it together-

_"Boys-"_

Ed looks up at the shout, half-moving automatically, but Tom's got there first. His hand closes around Sam's arm, half-pulling him back through two parked cars, as Sam had wandered between them, nearly out into the road. The roar of an engine passing and a shout of a car window sends another violent shock through Ed, his heart throwing itself against his ribs so fast he feels ill, breathing hard as he half-runs to their side. Daniel stands a little ahead, watching, apparently momentarily shocked into silence.

"Th-Sam-" Ed bends down to him, to find Tom gently tugging at his trousers, exposing a small graze on his knee. Sam's snivelling, starting to cry, leaning back into Tom's arms.

"Oh, sweetie-" Justine bends down to him, from where she's reached their side, but Sam curls away from her, his little hands knotting into Tom's shirt, crying with shock.

Ed reaches out helplessly, but it's Bradby who says "It's all right", one hand wrapping into Sam's curls, cuddling him close into his chest. "It's all right" he says, eyes only briefly skirting over Ed and Justine, before dropping back to Sam, cradling their young son into his chest as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

* * *

"I don't know, Flo-" David stands at the bottom of the slide, his back ostentatiously turned to his daughter. "I don't know where Florence is-"

He hears his daughter giggle, before her feet hit the back of his legs a moment later.

 _"There_ Florence is-" He spins round and seizes her round the waist, letting Florence scramble over his shoulder, giggles high-pitched, climbing all over him.

Most prime ministers' children get used to spending time in St James' Park, the vast expanse of it spread out behind Downing Street. The lingering cold of winter still leaves the playground mostly deserted. David used to take Florence here almost every afternoon after nursery, from when she was big enough to sit in the tiny baby swings. Now that she's in school, it's a little rarer, and rarer still that it gets to be just him and Florence.

"Come on-" He pulls Flo down against his chest while she wraps around him, monkey-style. "Do you want to go on the slide again or on the rocks-"

"Rocks-rocks are _bigger-"_

They've got an hour or so before they need to leave for the cinema-Dave had taken the opportunity of a weekend in London to take Flo shopping in amongst some of their old haunts on the Portobello Road, but they'd still got back to Downing Street with time to spare. So St James' Park had seemed a good idea.

As well as a useful distraction from David's phone.

He's texted Miliband five times ever since his conversation with Alex this morning. Five times that Miliband's ignored him.

David tries to tell himself that this is normal. It's perfectly, perfectly normal. In fact, it's abnormally normal.

It doesn't stop him from checking his phone again.

"Daddy, _watch-"_ Flo's balancing on a rock, which gives David the prompt he needs to shove his phone away. He keeps his eyes fixed on Flo in her little pink coat, arms extended, ready to catch her if he needs to. Flo's made the rocks her own over the past couple of years, scrambling about all over them until she must be able to find her way in her sleep, but David still watches her, waiting for any sign she could lose her step.

He doesn't know what to do about Miliband, is the issue-the second issue, aside from the Alex issue. The only thing he can look at coming up is the election and that, and whatever he and Miliband are doing, all seem to be inextricably tangled up together.

Afterwards, he has no idea what to do, and right now, the one question tightening in his stomach over and over, is what the hell Miliband has said to Patrick.

David doesn't doubt he said something.

"Daddy-"

David stretches out his arms and catches Flo easily, rubbing his face against her soft hair.

If he didn't say anything, then why else wouldn't he be taking his calls?

"Daddy-" Florence hangs on round his neck, presses her cheek to his. "You look sad." She pokes her fingers at his mouth, trying to jab it into a smile.

"I look sad?" David kisses her temple, then her cheek. He holds onto Florence, breathing in the scent of her baby shampoo, her bright, happy grin dimpling her cheeks. Florence was always the smiliest of their babies, as though already sensing she was the centre of their world. Their first year in Downing Street was marked with Florence's firsts-first roll-over, first step, first word-and dotted, over and over throughout, with her smiles.

Florence giggles, uncertain, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before she hangs onto him, her legs wrapped round his waist. David, relishing the weight of her in his arms, is reminded, suddenly, of Daniel and Sam walking into that basement kitchen with Miliband, of that odd distance between them.

"Flo" he says, speaking into her baby cheek. "How would you like a friend when we go to the cinema this afternoon?"

* * *

The only reason Ed answers the phone is it's the only escape.

Chaos is going on in the hallway. Sam had run to Zia the moment they'd walked into the house, his little face still creased and tear-stained, and now Justine and Rachel are gathered around him in the living room, trying to clean his face up for filming. Justine's having make-up reapplied by Anna, while Tom is in the kitchen, talking to _their_ Tom, Patrick and Stewart. Ed has taken refuge on the landing, where he's leaning his head on his hand, and now he looks up to see Torsten standing at the top of the stairs, looking at him sympathetically.

"Tough time?" he says, by way of comfort.

Ed likes Torsten, but it's hard not to roll his eyes at him sometimes.

"Just...overwhelmed" he says, praying Torsten won't try to engage him in conversation about his latest bloody idea for casting the pledges in stone.

Torsten gives him a sympathetic look, then reaches out and pats Ed's shoulder cautiously. Ed finds it harder not to smile at least a little. He's never been keen on being patted or cuddled but something about Torsten's awkward affection makes it easier to endure.

Cameron's hugs are easier to endure, too.

Though if Ed's honest, he doesn't so much endure Cameron's hugs as relish them.

He doesn't know if he's thinking of Cameron, but his phone, which, for some reason Ed doesn't like to consider, he's currently clutching to his cheek like a liferaft, starts vibrating again.

Torsten holds up his hands. "I'll let you-"

Ed watches him with something approaching fondness as he turns awkwardly to amble down the stairs. He watches him go for another few moments before he snatches up his mobile, his expression contrasting pretty sharply with his tone.

"What?"

"Charmed, I'm sure." Cameron's smooth voice raises Ed's hackles, and he scrambles to his feet, heading for the landing.

"What do you want?" he hisses, walking up and down the landing. "You've rung me five fucking times."

"Some people might have taken that as a hint."

Ed says something unrepeatable.

"What pretty manners you have."

"Fuck off, Cameron." Ed takes a strange, savage pleasure in the words-at least, he's moving, even if he's marching up and down a landing. At least he's doing something. He's not just sitting there.

"Gladly. If you'd tell me why your special adviser has been badgering my brother all weekend."

That brings Ed up short. "What?"

"I do take it you know someone by the name of Patrick Hennessey?"

"Patrick? My Patrick?"

The words remind him of his own voice yesterday, almost quavering. _Cameron's Craig?_

"Yes, your Patrick." Cameron laughs, but Ed can almost feel the tension, taut through his words. "He and my brother had a little get-together yesterday, apparently."

"Your brother-"

"Alex. He and Patrick were in the same class at school."

Ed feels his cheeks flush.

"Perhaps Old Etonians are more your cup of tea than I thought." Cameron's voice is teasing now, a lilt in the words that suggests he's smirking. Ed feels himself blush outright now, staring over the bannisters as though Patrick can hear him.

"Don't mention it to him yet" Cameron says, almost sounding bored now.

"How do you know he's here?"

A pause. "I didn't, until now."

Ed drags a hand through his hair. "What do you mean, don't mention it to him yet? When do you want me to mention it to him?" A cold hand seems to grip his insides, and Ed's fingers tighten round the bannister. "He doesn't...does he-"

"Know all about your fondness for crossing the state and private divides?"

Ed mutters something about crossing something else.

"No." Cameron laughs a little. "I'd have done more than ring you if he did."

"Th-so-" Ed pushes himself away from the bannister, walking back and forth. "What do you-what are you-why did you ring me now, then?"

"I was going to suggest we discuss it in person" Cameron says, and Ed hates the way his heart picks up at that.

"We can't. Not today."

"Busy drafting up more attack lines on the evils of Etonian education?" Ed grits his teeth at the grin in Cameron's voice. "While your adviser flogs himself a hundred times down in that second kitchen of yours'?"

Ed doesn't know if it's the words _second kitchen_ , or just the fact the grin in Cameron's voice suddenly brings him back to being on that couch in his office, Cameron's mouth wet and warm against his neck-

"I'm fucking busy" he snaps.

"Having the second kitchen filmed?"

Ed's caught for a moment, and Cameron laughs. "Really? _Really?"_

"Shut up."

"You're braver than I thought, Miliband."

"Shut up." Ed's lip is caught between his teeth. "You said you wouldn't use this."

"Don't worry, I haven't broken our little pact." Cameron sounds almost bored, and Ed snaps. "Well, it wouldn't be the first fucking time, would it?"

There's a beat, then "What are you talking about?" Cameron sounds genuinely confused, but then, it's Cameron. If a question was a bullet, Cameron could duck out the way and tidy his hair afterwards.

Ed rolls his eyes. "You know what" he mutters, ignoring the fact that Cameron might well not know what.

"I really, really don't, but as thrilling as this is-"

Ed's attention is distracted by a tear-filled _"No!"_ from Sam downstairs. He guesses that Justine's persuasion mission hasn't gone well.

"Who was that?" Ed waits for the jibe about one of his advisers searching out a noose, but all there is in Cameron's voice is a hint of concern.

"Th-Sam" he says, after a minute, caught between Cameron and whether he should go downstairs and help or whether he'd make things worse. "He's-it'th filming and he's-he's shy."

There's another silence. Then "Ah."

Don't _Ah_ me, Ed thinks furiously. Don't _Ah_ me, you with your perfect fucking wife and your perfect fucking kids. You've got no clue what it's like for the rest of us.

Then he remembers suddenly, sitting with Nancy on a step in the Cotswolds, her head leaning against his arm.

"Yeah" he says instead, the words tired rather than biting. "Yeah, _ah."_

There's a pause, during which Ed can almost picture the slight exhalation Cameron will have let out as he thinks.

"Well" he says, as Ed leans his head against the wall. "I was calling about the boys, actually."

Ed frowns. "About the boyth?"

"Well-" Ed knows Cameron's voice well enough to know when he's affecting a careless tone. Something about it curls fondly in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm taking Flo to the cinema later on. Just wondered if they'd like to join us."

Ed blinks.

It shouldn't come as much of a surprise. For God's sake, they've spent _weekends_ with Cameron.

But now-in a campaign-

"What're you th-seeing?" Ed hears himself ask stupidly, as though that makes any difference.

"Shaun The Sheep!"

Something about the bounce in Cameron's voice as he says it makes Ed turn away as though Cameron's next to him, hand pressed to his mouth to hide his smile.

"Ah-"

"It'd get them out of your hair" Cameron says, voice creeping up a little. Ed holds onto that. The moment Cameron's voice gives him away.

"I could pick them up from yours'."

"I-"

"It's up to you."

Ed casts another glance over the bannisters. He can hear murmured voices in the living room, Sam's laboured, damp little breaths.

"Yeth." He almost snaps the word out. "Yes, all right."

Cameron laughs softly. "Yes, all right? I can't thank you enough, Miliband."

"Th-shut up" Ed snaps, aware that his tone is entirely inappropriate for addressing someone who's just agreed to do him a favour. "Just-text me when to bring them out. But-don't ring the doorbell."

"Should I hide around the corner and wait for the Bat Signal?"

Ed hangs up the phone, fighting the grin that wants to leap out.

* * *

"We can just send Daniel in" Anna suggests, biting her lip and glancing at the kitchen. "Sam can come in in a bit."

Justine takes a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. She stares at Sam in front of her, who presses his face into Zia's lap, his face still infuriatingly tear-stained.

"You were going to come in in a bit" says Stewart, who's joined them in the living room with Ed, Daniel wandering back and forth behind the armchair. "You can just bring Sam in with you, then."

"Didn't you want both the boys together?" Justine blinks slowly, carefully, so as not to smudge the fresh mascara Anna's just curled under her eyelashes.

"Yeah, but, it's not a disaster." Stewart shrugs. "We can just have Daniel. Sam can come in, later."

"But it would be better?"

Justine tilts Sam's chin up. "Come on, Mr S" she says, trying to make her voice as coaxing as possible, remembering doing the same when they were children, when Mum and Dad couldn't go to one of Alex's school plays, him sitting on the edge of his bed, turning his face away from her. "Here, do you want a-Daddy could give you a carry-"

She reaches to lift him off Zia's knee, trying to slide her hands under his arms, feeling rather like she's lifting a sack of potatoes. But Sam's arms stay locked around Zia's neck and Zia keeps hers' around him, hands patting his back.

"Let's just leave him for a bit" Anna suggests. "And then we'll see-"

Justine looks at Zia, who looks back at her, expressionless. Her gaze moves to Ed, who looks away, then finally, back to Sam, who peers at her over his shoulder momentarily, before he turns away, dark eyes leaving hers, eyelashes spiky and wet. Ed always thinks Sam looks like him, but in that moment, all Justine can see is Alex.

* * *

A few minutes later, Ed's feeling decidedly less cheerful. Justine's left Sam in the living room with Zia, on the proviso that they'll bring him in in a few minutes once he's calmed down but even Ed-who'd managed to give his younger son an awkward half-hug on the way out, pressing a kiss half into his curls-had had to admit that was looking like a lost cause.

"Now, remember-" Justine pats Daniel's head, as he scampers ahead of her down the hallway, lured by Ed's promise of a treat later if he behaved well. "This kitchen's the best one, OK, Daniel?"

Daniel gives a half-shrug, but Justine doesn't have the chance to do any more-they're in earshot of the cameras now, which Tom's already warned them are filming. Justine turns to the cupboard under the stairs, carrying the boys' coats, with a touch to Ed's sleeve-Anna had suggested Justine linger back with Sam for a little while, to make the absence less obvious.

Even Ed has a feeling that appearing to stare around his own kitchen would be a little unusual, but he can't help but blink slightly, even as Daniel scrambles up onto a small stool that Rachel or Stewart must have found somewhere-Ed thinks he might recognise it as one Zia keeps in her basement. The noticeboard, which had previously been bare, is now covered in family photos, to the point where Ed almost pauses, surprised they've got that many. But on closer inspection, it becomes obvious where he's seen the photos before-they're all the Christmas cards his office has sent out over the past four years, with his and Justine's names inside. There's a jar of coloured fridge magnets, numbers and letters, that Ed's never seen before-maybe they're from the school.

Daniel's chattering away to himself. "When Zia make toast-she- _dips it-"_

Ed shakes himself back into reality. "Mother's Day eggs for Mummy, yes?"

Daniel leans over the counter. "Yes."

Ed hears the click of the door behind him as Justine shuts it, doesn't look as he hears her move down the hallway.

"Sweetie-"

He knows Justine will be pleased with that, and isn't sure if he is or not.

"Da-baaa-" Daniel's chanting more happily now, kneeling up on the stool as the oven beeps into life, and Ed lets himself hope that the small skirmishes in the park are forgotten.

"Now do-"

"How many eggs are there?"

At the same time as Daniel's question, all three of them hear, from the living room, a very definite, damp little _"Noooo!"_ It's Sam's voice.

Ed fiddles with the buttons, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. "Now-" He forces his voice a little louder, hoping Daniel won't look at the door. "Do you think this is going to go right or wrong, Daniel?"

Daniel's small smile peeks out, dimpling his cheeks. "Wrong."

Tom laughs-thank God, Tom laughs.

"Wrong." Ed's voice is almost weak with relief. "That's what I think, too-"

He lowers the whisk into the bowl, laughing slightly, as much as he's able to while his ears are still straining for any sound from the other room. "But we'll do our very best."

* * *

"Take a deep breath, Mr Sam-" Justine tries to hold him steady on her knee, aware of him slipping about, wriggling away. Aware of the fact he's straining for Zia.

"Come on" she whispers, trying to soften her voice, trying to tamp down the fury or fear or both that riots out through her chest when she's in court, looking at a judge, knowing that she's losing, she's losing, and there's nothing that can be done about it. "Come on, Mr Sam. Just-do you want to go into the kitchen with Daniel-"

 _"Noooo!"_ Sam makes the angry, complaining sound again, the same one he'd made when Justine had walked into the living room, holding her arms out to take him into the kitchen.

Justine takes a deep breath, tries not to hold him too tightly. Tries not to let her fingers dig into him. She remembers nearly two years ago, being on that beach in Brighton, the stones crunching under her feet, setting Sam down uncertainly, that tightening in her chest, trying to coax a smile to his mouth. _Do you want to throw some stones?_

_No, Mummy-_

_What do you want to do?_

_I don't know, Mummy-_

"We can leave him for a bit-" Anna glances at the door. "Tom's about to do the whole kitchen thing, anyway, so-"

"OK." Justine is about to take Sam's face in her hands, nearly manages it, but then pulls back at the last moment. "Sweetie-sweetie, we need you to-let's get your nose wiped, and then you can-"

"You said-" Sam's voice is a piercing little cry, and Justine's suddenly sitting in a bedroom years ago, Alex nestled against her side, his face wreathed with tears. _They said. They were coming. They said._

"Sam" she says, taking a deep breath, and she moves her hands to his arms so she doesn't cup his face, the same way the little girl from years ago had glanced at her brother once, twice, almost moving, and then kept her arm at her side, so that it wouldn't lift, wouldn't fall around his shoulders.

* * *

"Right, we're going to-ready for the kitchen question?" Tom asks, with a grin. Daniel is playing with the loaf of bread.

Ed glances at their Tom, behind the camera, who gives him a thumbs-up.

"Yes, I think that-"

"OK. So, let me know if you want to redo any of this-"

"OK-"

There's a moment of silence, during which Ed hears, barely, from the living room, Sam's voice. "You said-"

"So this is officially-the kitchen."

Ed takes a deep breath, Tom's words echoing his head. Laugh it off. We've got to make it seem trivial. If it's not bothering you, the voters will dwell on it less.

"This is officially the famous kitchen-the inf-"

"The Stalinist kitchen-" Tom speaks at the same time.

"Our infamous-" Ed hesitates over the words, awkwardly. "We quite like this kitchen."

He fights not to peer at Tom behind the cameras, as he focuses on the eggs he's whisking in the bowl-Rachel and Stewart have already taken care of most of it.

"Do you want to just explain-let's get this issue over with?"

Ed tries to smile, aware painfully of Tom listening hard.

"This is-the family kitchen?" Bradby watches him, both of them recognising the prompt.

Ed glances back at the eggs, speaking a little more carefully now. "This is the kitchen we use" he says, carefully. "There's a kitchen downstairs-" The important part. "Our nanny lives downstairs-"

"Yeah-"

"And-erm-it's sort of a basement area, basement flat-" Ed can't look at the other Tom to see his reaction, but it's what they went over, what they rehearsed.

"Right."

"And-erm-she uses the kitchen downstairs-and we use this kitchen."

Ed tries not to breathe a sigh of relief now that the words are out, but his shoulders relax a little as he turns back to the eggs, finally allowing himself to laugh a little.

"Yeah, which is-like most kitchens, just not enormous-"

"Apparently, people-" Ed tries to rein himself in, hearing himself speak a little too quickly, almost tripping over the words. "I haven't been-read the-"

"Yeah-"

"What people have said-"

Bradby doesn't say anything, but his eyebrow arches, very slightly.

"But apparently, they don't like the kitchen-" Ed turns back to the oven a little too fast. "Is that right?"

"Errrrmmmm-"

"It's not-it's not popular, this kitchen?" Ed seizes the rare moment of Bradby not speaking to get this in, remembering Tom's words- _we're the underdog here. We can use it._

"Well, it's become-a-a-a matter of comment, but let's not-"

Ed fiddles with the pan. His laugh sounds a little too loud even to his own ears, but he manages to grin at Tom, who returns the smile, slowing Ed's heartbeat a little.

"-let's not go there-" Tom says, laughing slightly, and behind the camera, Ed catches the other Tom giving him the faintest hint of a thumbs-up, and, for the first time, allows himself to relax.

*

"It's not-it's not popular, this kitchen" Daddy's saying, and Daniel's bored and his knees hurt on the stool because Zia usually puts a cushion there for him to kneel on.

"Well, it's become-a-a-a matter of comment-" the other man called Tom is saying, but Daniel doesn't look up because he's not supposed to look at the people behind the cameras.

"But let's not-let's not go there-"

Daddy laughs, then, and his smile is too big and bright, but something in it, as he glances back at the eggs, makes something ache in Daniel's chest. Daddy's smiling but his eyes look sad, and something about it reminds him of Sam.

"I suppose the, the issue to draw from it is-"

Perhaps that's why Daniel leans towards Daddy and tries to put his arm all the way round his back, the way he does for Sam when he's upset.

"This kitchen is the best" he says, trying the words out, remembering that Mummy said to say them.

The man called Tom laughs, and Daddy turns round to him. "This kitchen is the _bear's-"_

 _"No_ , it's the _best!"_ Daniel's laughing, but Daddy's looking at him, and so he knocks his head against Daddy's arm, wanting to keep Daddy's eyes pulled round to him.

"Oh, it's the _best-"_ Daddy's laughing, turning round to the man called Tom. "I thought you said it was the bear's-"

Daddy's laughing, and he let Daniel but his head against his arm, so Daniel tries not to think about how Daddy's not looking at him again.

* * *

"OK, we're going to do the-everything still OK?"

Ed glances over his shoulder at Bradby. "Is this about the-the personal-"

"Yeah, that-if we can-"

"Yeah, that'th-" Ed has to try not to speak too fast. "That'th fine, it-"

"OK-"

Ed pours the egg mixture into the pan.

"I suppose the issue is-" Bradby says slowly, leading in.

"Yep-"

"You have to put up with a lot of personal attacks."

Ed stirs the eggs, trying to breathe slowly, running over the prepared words, trying not to let himself glance behind the camera.

"How do I know when it's ready?" Daniel's voice splits his concentration, his son leaning forward on the counter-Ed vaguely thinks he should tell him to lean back, but he's trying to focus on the question.

"Including about the kitchen?" He tries to smile at Tom, conscious of the other Tom watching him keenly behind the cameras, eyes narrowed.

Bradby meets his gaze steadily. "Including about the kitchen."

Ed manages to laugh.

Behind him, Daniel's voice pitches slightly, annoyance cracking his words. "How do I know when it's _ready?"_

* * *

Daniel's trying to see the eggs because Daddy's not looking. If Zia was here, she'd make Daniel sit back on the stool, but Zia's not, so Daniel tries to lean over as far as he can, trying to see how yellow the eggs are.

"How do I know when it's ready?" he demands, because Daddy's not listening.

"So-"

Daddy turns round, but he's just fiddling with the oven. "Er-"

"Is that tough?"

The man called Tom's asking Daddy questions, but Daniel doesn't care about them. He's hungry and the eggs look nice and bright and he wants to know when they're ready, and he wants Daddy to look at him.

"Daddy, how do I know-"

He tries to get hold of Daddy's arm, leaning off the stool so he can get round Daddy's hip, to make Daddy see him, but Daddy pulls away, so Daniel nearly falls and has to pull himself back onto the stool.

"How do I know-"

But then he hears Sam's voice from the other room, all wet with crying. "No, I don't _want_ to, I don't _-no-"_

* * *

Justine glances at Rachel. "Shall we-if they're-shall we ask if they're ready for us to go in-"

Rachel stands by the door, on the other side of the frame, out of shot of the cameras. "If you-yeah, if you want to pick him up-"

Justine bends to lift Sam awkwardly, but he struggles, trying to get down on the floor. "No, Mummy-"

"Come-come on, Mr Sam-" Justine manages to lift him, but his head lolls back, his eyes dampening, threatening another fit of tears. "Come on, we can-do you want to-we can go and have some jam toast in the kitchen with Daddy and Daniel, can't we-"

 _"No_ , Mummy-"

Justine glances at Rachel, perplexed. Rachel's torn between the two of them and the hallway-she'll have to let Stewart and Tom know they're bringing Sam in. Justine catches sight of Zia, who's moved to just on the other side of the door that leads to her flat, on hand in case either of the boys need to be taken out.

Something about the sight makes her turn back to Sam, lowering her voice slightly." Sam." She tries to tap his nose, tries to tilt his chin in her hand. "Come on-don't you want to go and-go and help Daddy with the toast-"

"No cam-ras-" Sam's starting to cry now, and Justine looks at Rachel as she crouches down, annoyance tightening in her chest, her grip on Sam's arms doing the same.

"We could-take him in in a moment-"

"No, I don't _want_ to, I don't- _no-"_ Sam's voice rises in a sob, and Justine has to force herself to let go of him, before her fingers grip his arms too tight, because she needs him to just behave the way he's meant to, just for a few minutes..

_The one thing that was totally lacking from her interview, however, was humour. That and any sign of warmth, empathy or fallibility..._

Rachel's hovering, taking in the look on her face, even as the words suddenly hover in her mind, ghosts of the article from earlier in the week. "We could-"

 _"Dad!"_ Daniel's shriek from the kitchen takes them both by surprise.

Rachel hesitates, peering round the doorframe. "What was-"

Justine crosses to the door, looking away from Sam, who's leaning against the sofa, knuckling at his eyes, leaning out into the hallway to see what the problem is. If she sees Rachel move to Sam out of the corner of her gaze, sees her wrap her arms around him, sees Sam lean into her with a snuffle more readily than he had to his mother, she doesn't let herself notice.

* * *

"It comes with the territory-"

Daddy's looking at the man called Tom, Daniel craning round to make Daddy look at him-

"Oh, the kitchen just makes me laugh-"

"Daddy-" Daniel nearly falls off the stool, and it makes him feel angry, hot and angry in his chest.

"Honestly, quite a lot of it makes me laugh-"

Daniel stares at Daddy, looking away from him, and feels something hot and angry snap in his chest.

"Dad!"

His hand curls and digs his fingers into his father's arm, nails scraping, as hard as he can. It isn't hard to anyone else, but to Daniel, it's with all the strength his little body can hold, anger rioting in his chest.

His father turns round, his eyes widening, and Daniel will remember this moment for a long time, the second before his father says "Yes?", as though nothing has happened. Daniel will remember knowing it was because the cameras were there, but not knowing how he knows.

But his father's looking at him, and so he says "How do I know when it's ready?"

"I think it's _nearly_ ready-" His father peers at the eggs, as though Daniel hasn't done anything wrong.

And so Daniel says _"Nearly?"_ and peers at them too. But he's seen the look on his father's face, the look that stayed there for less than a second before his father remembered the cameras and the filming and the man called Tom. He won't realise this yet, but for a moment, his father looked at him like Daniel could hurt him.

* * *

"OK, can we just-" Ed looks round to see Rachel in the hallway, holding her hands up defensively as she reaches the kitchen doorway. "Justine says, can we just have Zia cut through the hallway for a moment, because she-er-Sam needs, she needs to see to Sam-"

"Sure, sure-" Bradby holds up his hands and Ed glances back and forth, caught between the eggs and the hallway and Daniel, who's now playing with the packet of bread, Ed's arm still stinging from the scratch of his little hand. "Ith-is Sam wanting her-"

"Yeah-" Rachel's already opening the door, where Zia's been waiting, on standby in case either of the boys were to start making a fuss. She glances at Ed as she walks past the kitchen and Ed can't quite read the expression on her face.

"Shall we-wait until she goes back in or-"

"Er-" Rachel's at the living room doorway, now. "No, I think-I think we're just going to keep it-keep them in the living room-"

"OK-"

"So just-" Rachel's head darts in and out of the living room doorway. "Yeah, there we go-you can-"

Ed, glancing awkwardly back at the eggs, notices Daniel quietly retrieving several pieces of bread from the packet. He takes hold of his hand. "Th-stop-stop that, th-sweetie-"

Daniel pulls away.

"And you-you need to be quiet when we're filming, th-sweetie-" Ed tries to hold Daniel still as he's twisting away. "Tom'th asking me questions, and I need to hear him, remember?"

Daniel turns round, his shoulders sinking down, but at least he's quiet.

"OK, are we-are we ready to-"

"Yeah, yeah-"

"Did we-did we-were you still answering the last question then, or-"

"Yeah, I think he was-"-the other Tom's gaze is fixed on Ed from behind the cameras. "I think he was-"

"OK, do you want to just-finish that one up-and-" Bradby nods, prompting him. "We were talking about the-the personal attacks, the kitchen and so on-"

"Yeah, yeah-I mean-" Ed takes one of the pieces of bread Daniel's extricated from the packet, puts it in the toaster, ignoring Daniel's admonition: "Don't sti-don't _steal-"_

"Look, I care about the argument about my-what I'm-"

He stirs the eggs again."Putting forward for the country-" He glances back at Tom, hoping against hope that Daniel won't interrupt again.

"Mmm-"

"That's what I care about-" Ed keeps his eyes trained on the eggs, hoping to avoid his gaze automatically straying to Tom and Stewart behind the cameras. "And I actually think that-most of the other triviality is-just that, triviality."

The eggs look a bit dry, but for all Ed knows, they're fine. He can count on one hand the number of times he's actually made scrambled eggs.

"I mean-would I rather have not e-have not eaten a bacon sandwich-"

He has to try to force a laugh into his voice. "We've got to address it" Tom had said, in a tone that brooked no argument, the day before. "If we don't deal with it, the Tories will deal with it, and it's either their message about it or ours."

Ed knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier.

"Live on television-on balance-" He glances between the eggs and Tom. "Probably-"

His laugh sounds false to his own ears, but it seems to satsify Tom and Stewart.

"Probably not-but, you know, honestly-y-i-i-"

He stirs the eggs harder, along with his words.

"I slightly think if-if that's what an election gets decided on, so be it-"

He thinks of Cameron's face at the last election, his easy laugh across the despatch box.

He looks up at Tom, defiance flickering into life in his chest. "But I don't believe that _is_ what an election gets decided on" he says, more firmly, and, with something slightly closer to satisfaction settling in his chest, he turns back to the eggs.

* * *

"I mean, would I rather not-have not eaten a bacon sandwich-"

Daddy's talking to the new man called Tom. Daniel's bored, and Daddy told him not to be noisy, so he can't say anything, but there's nothing to do, so Daniel's leaning over and playing with the toaster, pushing the lever up and down, even though Zia always tells him not to because he could get burnt.

"Live on television-on balance-"

Daddy isn't looking at him, and Zia isn't here.

"Probably-" Daddy's pretending to laugh. "Probably not-but, you know, honestly-"

Daniel pushes the lever up and down a few more times, waiting for Daddy to notice and tell him off.

But Daddy turns round and just looks at the eggs, like Daniel isn't there, and Daniel sits back on the stool slowly.

"But, you know, honestly-"

Daniel shoves his chin down into his chest, feeling angry and sore in his chest, even though he didn't get burnt.

"I slightly think if that's what an election gets decided on, so be it, but I don't believe that _is_ what an election gets decided on."

Daddy looks round from the man called Tom to the eggs, but he doesn't look at Daniel at all.

* * *

"Sam." Justine crouches down in front of him, trying to blink slowly, so as not to ruin the new coat of mascara Rachel's just slicked onto her eyelashes. "Sam, Mummy's going in now-are you going to-"

She reaches for Sam's hand, closes her own around his wrist, tries to tug him away from Zia, whose lap he's half-nestled on. Sam's mouth crumples, his curly head turning away into Zia's shoulder. "No, no-"

"Come on, Mister-" Justine crouches down in front of him. "Why don't-why don't we-why doesn't Zia bring you into the hall, and we'll just see-just see if you want to go in and see Daddy and Daniel-come on-"

Sam squirms, and Zia presses a kiss into his hair, gently rocking him back and forth.

"Yeah, that's-" Rachel glances at the door. "Maybe just-take him into the hall and see how he's-"

"Yeah, come on, Mister-" Justine tries to tap his nose, but Sam turns away at the last moment, so her finger catches his cheek. "Just-bring him through-"

Zia looks torn for a moment, as though she's going to remain where she is, but slowly, she stands up, balancing Sam on her hip. His head nestles on her shoulder, his face still turned away as Zia carries him to the hallway. Justine follows, moving around them carefully, conscious of her top-she'd only changed into it when they'd got home, Rachel examining it carefully, trying it with and without the necklace, before she deemed it a good choice.

"So we're just going to-" Justine smiles, deliberately looking at Ed, not at the cameras, as they reach the kitchen doorway. "We're just going-what's going on in here, then-"

"Hi, Mr Th-Sam-" Ed turns a smile on his younger son from the oven, and Justine tugs at his hand. "Are you going to-are you going to say hello for Daddy, Mister-"

Sam's face turns slightly, as though he might be preparing to acquiesce, but his dark eyes widen, then scrunch shut as he catches sight of the cameras. "No, no, no-"

"Oh, come on-" Ed says, his tone an attempt at jocularity, his hands reaching for Sam, but Sam squirms away, his arms wrapping around Zia's shoulders in a death-grip, his voice rising in a wet little scream. _"No, no, no, no-"_

"Sam-" Justine tries to make her tone firm, but her voice can't be heard over Sam's voice, reaching a high pitch that threatens hysterics.

"Look, if we don't-" Bradby steps forward, hands out, appeasing. "Don't worry about it, we can just-we can just film him in a minute, when we're eating, it's-it's absolutely fine-"

Justine counts to ten slowly in her head, turns an apologetic smile on Bradby. "Sorry, he's-he's shy-"

"It's fine, it's fine, it's-"

Justine turns to Zia, the annoyance she's struggling to keep in check rising at the sight of her rubbing Sam's back in a slow circle, searching for a target.

"Do you want to just-take him-" she says, gesturing to the living room. "Do you want to-just for a bit-"

Zia meets her gaze and there's something hard and challenging there, something that almost makes Justine flinch back. But then Zia just nods, and Bradby claps his hands together. "All right, so are you-you can just come in again-"

"Yeah, yeah-" Justine steps back, takes a deep breath. Forces herself to smile, reining her annoyance down, deeper into her body.

"I'll just go-" she hears Zia say, already at the door, but then she's walking into the kitchen and the rest of Zia's words fall on deaf ears.

"How do you want your scrambled eggs, sweetie?" Ed's voice is overbright, but he smiles at her, and he's trying. Something about that touches Justine, though she's not sure how to show it.

"Hello!" She tries to put it into her voice instead, walking up behind Daniel, telling herself that at least he's being quiet, he's stayed in the kitchen, he's not being a problem.

Daniel doesn't look at her, moving pieces of toast around slowly. Justine tries not to let her smile falter, peering over Daniel's shoulder at the eggs. "Well, that looks nice!"

"It _does_ look nice, doesn't it?" Ed says, in a similar tone, and Justine feels a jolt of gratitude towards him in that moment, gratitude for not making it more difficult.

"Very nice, boys!" She tries addressing the words straight to Daniel, hoping for a tilt of the head or a smile, but Daniel just stares at the pieces of toast in front of him, as though Justine isn't there at all. Justine blinks, wondering whether to touch his shoulder, get his attention.

"How do you want them?" Ed's saying, and it takes Justine a moment to answer him, a moment for her to look away from Daniel's stubborn, determined silence.

* * *

"It _does_ look nice, doesn't it?" Daddy's saying, with his voice all bright and bouncy, but Daniel's thoughts are outside the room, with Sam and Zia in the living room.

"Very nice, boys!" Mummy's voice is the same, right behind Daniel, but Daniel doesn't want to turn round. He wants to go to the living room and see Sam and Zia, but Mummy's in the way and Daddy's already told him not to be noisy once, and Daniel doesn't know if that'll count as being noisy.

"How do you want them?" Daddy's saying to Mummy, and Daniel doesn't know if he wants the eggs anymore, because they look all dry. He grabs onto a piece of toast instead.

"This is _mine"_ he says, because sometimes Mummy makes him eat something else instead of the things he wants. Once, she made Zia put malt loaf in Daniel's lunchbox for a week at school, until Zia stopped doing it because Daniel threw it out every day.

"Do you want-do you want f-butter on your toast-"

"I think like that-"

"Do you want it on toast-"

"Errr-"

Daddy's reaching for one of the pieces of toast Daniel's been playing with.

Daniel snatches it away. "No, this is _mine-"_ he says, because Daddy hasn't even seen him play with them, which means Daddy hasn't been looking.

Daddy does that same strange look at Daniel, like he doesn't know what he's going to do next. Like he's scared of him. Daniel can feel Mummy looking at him, almost feel her wanting him to look round.

"Yes, I definitely want butter-"

 _"Uhhh"_ he says, thinking about how Daddy didn't watch him, then remembering how Daddy told him not to be noisy, and how Mummy wanted him to smile, and so now he stares down at the toast and doesn't smile, not at all.

Mummy doesn't say anything but Daniel can feel her watching him, almost feel her wanting him to smile, like a force at his back, and he feels angry and happy at the same time that he won't do it.

* * *

"So while Ed butters the toast-" Tom wraps his hands together, with an easy grin. "Shall we just-get the kitchen question over and done with, get it-"

"We can if you like, we can-" Justine manages to laugh slightly, perhaps buoyed up by Tom's easy manner, the way he manages to take in the whole room with one smile.

"So-does Ed spend much time in this-now very, very famous-"

Justine laughs. She has to. She was never going to do anything else, even if it hadn't been for Tom and Stewart's warnings beforehand. _We have to look like it's nothing. Like it's trivial, to us. We have to turn it back on the Tories._

"-as written up by the newspapers, kitchen?"

"Errrr-well, we-" Justine hugs her arms across her chest, holding her answer carefully, preparing it. "We spend about probably equal time, equal amounts of time-" They don't usually eat dinner together, but not much time needs to be spent in the kitchen anyway-the children eat downstairs with Zia and at the end of a workday, neither of them feels much like cooking.

"I don't, really-" Tom's laughing sceptically. "I'm not-"

"Well, perhaps I spend a bit more time-"

Justine's saved from going any further into her answer by Ed awkwardly presenting her with a plate of toast, scrambled eggs heaped on top.

"Did it-" he says or "Sweetie-" but Justine's mind's already racing ahead, at how to respond.

"Ohhhh-" Justine knows this is probably meant to be affectionate, should probably look affectionate. But situations like this have always made her pause, as though she has to calibrate her responses. She's not sure what to do, whether she should touch his arm as she reaches out for the plate or not.

"Darling-" The word feels odd, wrongly-shaped in her mouth.

_Intellectually, I'm certain she understands these concepts..._

"There you go-" Ed passes her the plate and Justine laughs, not knowing what to do, unsure whether to meet Ed's eyes or not. They so rarely do things like this for each other, it feels vaguely strange, the plate almost awkward in her hands.

"Thank you ba-" She can't make herself say the word, even for the cameras.

"What can I say?"

Ed reaches out, almost absent-mindedly, as though searching for something to do with his hands, one finding Daniel's head. Justine's almost relieved when they're spared finding anything else to say by one of the cameramen calling in "Hang on-that looked good, do you want to-do you want to try-"

* * *

"Ohhh, darling-" The word sounds strange in Mummy's mouth, but Daniel doesn't bother to look at it. It sounds sickly-sweet and he doesn't want to look at Mummy, anyway. Daddy already took one of the bits of toast he wanted, and now he's trying to chooose a new one.

"There you go-"

"Thank you ba-"

"What can I say?" Daniel feels something pat at his head, and realises it's Daddy's hand. He wriggles, not sure if he wants to pull away or not.

"Hang on-" One of the men behind the camera's calling out, and Daddy looks round at him. "That looked good, do you want to, do you want to try-"

"Do you-do you mean me or Just-"

"Yeah, because we haven't seen much from Justine-with her and Daniel-"

Mummy's face is strange for a moment, like the look she was wearing has frozen there, but then her smile's back, big and too bright. "Oh, yeah, yeah, do you want me to-"

"Just give him a pat on the head, that's it-"

"Daniel, do you want some-" Daddy's passing him a piece of toast. "Here, do you want th-something to nibble on, sweetie-"

Daniel does, especially since the eggs look dry, and then Mummy's hand ruffles in his hair, a little too hard, her nails almost catching his scalp. Daniel isn't sure if he likes it or not, but he's more interested in the toast he's holding.

"And this-" he says, making his voice louder, so that he doesn't have it taken away. "Is _mine_ -ah-"

He bites into it, and pulls another piece towards him, gathering his food around him, as though he's hunkering down for winter.

* * *

"So, Justine, did you expect when you became-when your husband became Leader Of The Opposition-"

Justine steels herself, already preparing a response in her head, a light laugh, ready to throw off the words easily.

"You'd have to be reading reviews of your kitchen-"

Justine manages to laugh, a little harder than she needs to.

"-p-in the newspapers?"

Justine tries to run through the answer in her head, even as Daniel makes a small, angry sound, seemingly engaged in some kind of tug-of-war with Ed.

"No, sweetie, hang on-" She can hear the annoyance cracking through Ed's tone, raising a brief sweep of irritation as she tries to remember what she was going to say, even as Ed glances over his shoulder at her even as she speaks, eyes widening plaintively, a little self-conscious-"What's Sam wanting, sweetie?"

The word's starting to grate a little, and so does Sam's name.

"No, I think, er-"

She takes a deep breath, remembering the answer they rehearsed yesterday. "I think one thing Ed's got it, and I really hope I've got it, is a sense of humour-"

Ed dives for something Daniel's holding. Justine spots them tussling over something out of the corner of her eye, hastily glances back at Tom, hoping to keep the cameras away from whatever Daniel's upset over. She tries to ignore Ed's voice, impatient now, taut as he glances automatically at the cameras, under her voice. "Hang on, lif-li-I'll get you another piece, I'll give this to Tom-"

"And I-I do think you need-a sense of humour about-quite a lot of-erm-things that happen-"

"Look, we've got to act as though it doesn't bother us" Tom had said bluntly, the day before, Justine trying not to read the same sentence of one of the articles spread out in front of her over and over again. "In fact, we can probably turn it round, have it play into the Tories' trivia thing-"

Justine had nodded, determination rising in her throat. But her eyes had roamed over the sentence again.

"Because, look, there's-there i-there are serious things about politics-"

_But, like the late Mr Spock, one gets the impression she considers them unnecessary, inconvenient, and wholly surplus to requirements._

"But there's also a side that-" She tries to shrug slightly, as though it's nothing, water off a duck's back. Which it is, it should be. "It's good to have a sense of humour about-and-I think our-" She forces a laugh, remembering what Tom had insisted the day before.

"-our kitchen is definitely one of those that falls into that category."

 _They're only doing this because they're running scared,_ Tom had insisted. _Because they know we're winning. It means our strategy is working._

Justine had smiled and nodded and pushed the newspaper away, taking the sentence with it.

"That's _mine-"_ Daniel's voice rises to a wail then, and Justine glances at him.

"Daniel" she says, her voice a little too brittle. "Remember what we said, mister, don't be t-don't be too noisy-"

"Will this help, sweetie?" Ed's holding out a piece of toast, and Daniel takes it slowly. Ed smiles, relief settling into his shoulders, but Daniel doesn't smile, just turns away and munches at his toast, his back turned to both them and the cameras, shoulders hunching around his ears.

* * *

Daniel's gathering his toast together when Daddy reaches in and starts to pull it away.

"Mmm-" Daniel's got his mouth full, so he can't say anything, but he grabs at Daddy's hand, because Daddy's not even looking at him but he's taking his toast.

"No, sweetie, hang on-" Daddy's voice is tense and full of sharp things, like they're jabbing through the surface of the words. "What's Sam wanting, sweetie-"

Daddy's looking at Mummy, like Daniel isn't there, but Mummy's not looking at Daddy, she's looking at the man called Tom, her words all climbing over each other over Daniel's head. "No, I think, er-I think one thing Ed's got and I really hope I've got it is a sense of humour-"

Daddy's tugging at the plate that Daniel had hold of, and he's not looking at him, so Daniel tugs harder.

"Hang on-lif-li-" Daddy tugs even harder, and Daniel glares at him over the plate, and Daddy's eyes slide away from his own.

"I'll get you another piece, I'll give this to Tom-"

When Daddy's eyes find Daniel's again, they're big and wide, like they're begging Daniel to do something.

But then they slide away again and even when he tugs the plate out of Daniel's hands, Daniel glares at him.

"And I-I do think you need-a sense of humour about quite a lot of-erm-things that happen-" Mummy's not looking at Daniel or Daddy. Daniel looks up at her, sitting on his stool, remembers the feeling of Mummy's fingers, scrabbling in his hair.

"Because look, there's-there i-there are serious things about politics-" Mummy's words are all crisp at the edges, like she's practised them beforehand. "But there's also a side that-it's good to have a sense of humour about. And I think our-"

Mummy laughs, but her laugh sounds like she's done it a hundred times before. "Our kitchen is definitely one of those that falls into that category-"

Daniel looks round then and sees Daddy taking the plate away, and he reaches for the slice of toast that Daddy said he could have. "That's _mine-"_

"Daniel-" Mummy's voice sounds different now. Like it could break into pieces. "Remember what we said, mister, don't be t-don't be noisy-"

Daniel scrunches up his face and glares at her, because that's the first thing Mummy's said to him since she came into the kitchen and she's only doing it because she doesn't want him to be loud for the cameras.

"Will this help, sweetie-" Daddy's holding out a piece of toast and Daniel takes it, examining it slowly. He hunches up on the stool, turning his back on Mummy, and hunches up his shoulders. Like he can hide.

"OK, are we going to be-are we going to be taking the eggs in-going in now-" Daddy's friend Tom is talking from behind the camera.

"Yeah, I think-" The new man called Tom is looking around. "Are we-shall we get the plates-"

"Yeah, can we just-we haven't seen as much from the boys in this bit, so-shall we-" One of the cameramen's waving his hand at Mummy. "Maybe-pick him up or-that's right-"

Mummy's ruffling Daniel's hair again. Daniel squints up at her, pushes his toast further into his mouth. Mummy smiles at him, taps his chin with her finger. It's a little too hard, and Mummy looks like she doesn't know what she's doing with it, which makes Daniel laugh a little.

"Fantastic, thank you very much-" The new man called Tom is holding a plate of toast and eggs. Daniel gives the eggs a doubtful look, still sitting on his stool.

"Right-" Daniel looks round to see that Mummy's already gone, and Daddy's looking back at the eggs, and nobody's looking at Daniel.

"What can I say-"

"What can-" The new man called Tom looks at Daniel, his eyes twinkly, and Daniel remembers suddenly how he gave Sam a hug earlier on, when Sam was running by the road. "He's eating his toast-"

Daniel smiles up at him, wanting to keep him looking. Daddy's friend Stewart behind the camera waves at him, and Daniel wants to wave back, but they're not meant to talk to them when they're behind the camera-

"Are you gonna have-eggs-"

"I am, I'll come in in a sec-"

"OK-"

Daniel kneels up on the stool, looking at the cameras.

"Ed, do you want to-" Daddy's friend Tom's speaking at the same time as one of the cameramen. "We've got a nice close-up shot of him there, so, do you want to-"

"Oh-" Daddy steps back a little. "Do you-do you want to show them your toast, sweetie-"

Daniel usually doesn't like the cameras, but Daddy's friend Stewart waves at him, and Mummy's not there, and Daddy's still looking at the eggs, so Daniel takes another bite of his toast, waving it at the camera.

"That'th it, th-sweetie-" Daddy's not looking but the others are, so Daniel leans up further on his stool.

"Go on-" says Stewart, behind the camera, some of the people's voices muttering into each other.

"They're _interviewing_ my _toast-"_ He makes his voice louder, nearly shouting it, so they'll keep looking, and Daddy's friend Tom laughs, even as Daniel bites into his toast, which makes him feel lighter inside, bouncier. Even when Mummy's voice's calling through from the dining room, saying "Darling, can you make Sam some toast and jam, please-", the cameras don't look away from Daniel.

"Yeah,I am doing-yeah-"

"OK-"

Daniel lets his parents' voices wash over him a little. He crunches at his toast, keeps holding it up to the camera, waving it, so that they won't look away.

* * *

"Right, so-" Rachel's already set up the table earlier, and the cameras that follow Justine and Tom move unobtrusively to the side of the room. But Justine can't help casting an eye over the table again, wondering if she should move the little painted jug nearer one of them or whether that will look odd when they don't have drinks.

"So we said-if Tom's sitting at the head there-"

"Brilliant-" Tom gives her a grin, and Justine feels herself smile a little more easily at the way Tom sinks into the chair as naturally as if he eats here every day.

"And-we said you're here-" Rachel holds up her hands. "Remember, no-"

Justine manages to laugh. "No eating-"

"No eating on camera-" Rachel shakes her head. "At all-literally, at all-"

"No, definitely-definitely not-" Justine manages to laugh as she takes her seat, perpendicular to Tom at the head of the table.

"Oh, and-so Ed's having eggs, the boys-"

"Sam-Sam doesn't like eggs, Zia says, or not-" Justine waves a hand. "Scrambled or something, I don't know, but-right-"

"Right, do you want to-do you want to shout through-"

"Is that OK-"

"Yeah-as long as it's sort of-consistent-"

"Consistent-right, OK-" Justine raises her voice slightly. "Darling, can you make Sam some toast and jam, please?"

Ed's voice comes back-if there's a note of surprise in it, he manages to keep it well-hidden. "Yeah, I am doing-yeah-"

"OK-" Justine glances at Rachel for approval, getting a thumbs-up in return.

"So-" Tom's laughing, turning to the camera slightly before glancing back at Justine. "So this is where _I_ get to demonstrate on camera-"

Justine manages another laugh, remembering Tom's words from the day before.

"How _I_ eat things-"

Justine's hands are squeezing together in her lap. She manages another laugh, tilting her head back, trying to keep her hands out of sight under the table.

"Well, I'll-leave you to it-"

"Thus-you'll leave me-you'll leave me to it-" Tom glances at the camera. "You're not allowed to film Justine eating, you got to film me eating-"

He's cutting into his toast, and Justine glances at the door, wondering how long Ed'll be, if they should let the boys eat on camera.

"Erm-"

"Do you want some pepper?" she asks, the thought suddenly occurring.

Tom laughs. "No, I'm-I'm fine-let me just-"

He cuts a forkful, grins at her as he lifts it. "By the way, I feel-I feel really-"

"That's quite big-" Justine tries not to glance at the door, wondering where Ed's got to. Wondering if Zia will manage to bring Sam in, and she has to force herself to look away from the doors, to laugh again.

"I would definitely cut that in half-"

"Listen-" Tom grins at her. "I'm gonna be able to do it, I'm telling you-"

As he inserts the fork into his mouth, Justine has the odd, faintly disloyal thought that there's something about him that reminds her of Cameron. Not necessarily in a bad way.

"There you go, you see-" Tom wipes his hand across his mouth, but manages to give her a grin.

"Fair enough, what do you think?"

She can hear Zia's voice through the French doors, even with them almost closed, and then she hears Daniel's, raised plaintively around the words. "I've been _fright-"_

"Can you go in with Tom-" she hears, and she stills slightly, wondering if the boys are being difficult, if Sam still won't come in with Zia-

"Ermmm-"

But Tom's sitting in front of her and the cameras are watching and so Justine keeps smiling. Keeps sitting where she's meant to. Doesn't look at the doors, or let herself hear the children.

_Justine Miliband, or at least the Justine Miliband of this interview, is all about the cerebral..._

"I think it's good" Tom says, and if his smile is a bit too bright, Justine doesn't notice.

* * *

"You're not fu-" Tom-their Tom-glances at Daniel, at Ed's side, as they head through the hallway, and stops. "You're not eating on camera. Just-absolutely no-"

"Absolutely not" Stewart says, for once in agreement,

Ed glances at Daniel, who's trotting ahead, pulls at his bottom lip. "It'th going to look-"

"Then we'll cut it." Tom's tone brooks no argument. "We'll cut out every bloody second with someone taking a bite of something if we have to, just don't open your mouth near anything even resembling fucking-" He mouths the last word. "Food on camera."

Ed opens his mouth to object, but he's distracted by Daniel running across to Zia, who's sitting on the couch, Sam nestled in her lap.

"Hey, Daniel-" Zia catches him in one arm, bringing him to a halt easily, and Daniel leans against her, his head pressing against Sam's back.

"I've been-there were _cameras-"_ he tells her, glancing at the French doors suspiciously, and he covers Sam's head with his hands protectively.

"Were there-did you-" Zia almost glances at Ed, but seems to catch herself at the last moment. "Did you have your toast-"

"Ed-" Stewart tips his head towards the French doors and Ed leans down to tug at Daniel's wrist, gently at first, then a little harder when he seems reluctant to come away. "Swee-come on, th-sweetie, we've got to-you want to go in and have your eggs, don't you-"

"Are we bringing-" Stewart nods at Sam and Ed glances at Zia.

"You could-" he says hopefully, and Zia glances between him and Stewart with an expression Ed can't quite read.

She lifts Sam without saying anything, kissing his head as she does so, as Stewart pulls the French doors open slowly.

"Can you go in with Tom-" their Tom's saying, but what Ed hears before that is Daniel, winding himself round Zia's legs, saying earnestly, eyes wide, "I've been _fright."_

Ed jerks slightly, takes Daniel's hand a little too tightly.

"Hello-" Justine's smile's a little too bright. "Are we-are you ready for your jam toast, Mr Sam-"

It isn't even made yet; Anna's preparing it in the kitchen.

"It'th th-still-"

"Oh, is it still being finished off-" Justine taps the table. "Well, we can just-get you sitting down, can't we-"

Ed lowers the plate of eggs and toast to the table, glancing at the camera, then at Bradby, who's sitting at the head, apparently tucking in. "Apparently, I'm not allowed to eat them."

He hears the bite in his own voice, senses Tom still behind him. He should wince, should regret the words, but surprisingly, he doesn't.

"No, but _I_ am-" Bradby leaps in, smoothing the waters-Zia's pulling out one of the chairs they brought up from the basement now, lifting Sam up and lowering him into it. "And I've, I've, I've already surpassed the-erm-"

At that moment, Sam, who Zia had managed to lower into the chair, but not yet to fasten in, wriggles free. He slides down to the floor, and then he runs, at the French doors before anyone can grab him, heading to the living room door. Zia doesn't bother to ask what to do, following him without looking back, even as Justine's hand hits the table a little too hard, her voice tighter around his name-"Sam!"

* * *

"Apparently, I'm not allowed to eat them" Daddy's saying to the man with the camera, but they're big words and Sam doesn't know what they mean. He curls further into Zia, who's picked him up now, his arms around her neck.

"No, but _I_ am and I've-I've-" The man called Tom is saying something, but Sam doesn't hear him, because now Zia's trying to put him down into a chair, and Sam can see the cameras and Mummy sitting across the table, and Sam doesn't want his toast anymore.

He wriggles, hard, and then pulls away as Zia lets go to leave him sitting in the chair. He slides down to the carpet, and bends down low, like in the Octonauts, and runs out of the room.

"Sam!" He can hear Mummy's voice, hear her hand hitting the table, but Sam keeps running, away from the table and the cameras. Like an Octonaut, escaping from the bad people again.

* * *

Sam's eyes meet Justine's for a moment across the table. It's less than a second, less than a breath, but they narrow slightly, and for a moment, Justine feels a strange nausea, remembering sitting on a bed in another house, a lifetime ago, Alex's GCSE results in her hand, her mouth shaping itself around vague, meaningless platitudes, while Alex's eyes had watched hers', his lip almost curling, gaze narrowing, as though she was doing just what he'd expected her to.

When Sam drops to the floor and runs, heading straight for the French doors without looking over his shoulder, Justine stills for a moment, feeling oddly frozen, and only then realises she isn't surprised.

That tightens the already taut annoyance in her chest even more, and she smacks the table, hand coming down a little harder than she'd meant it to, her voice strained with the effort of trying to sound jaunty as she calls out "Sam!"

Sam doesn't look back, disappearing into the hallway. Neither does Zia, who's followed him without looking back. Daniel, who's scrambled up into his own chair, cranes over the back, watching them. Ed's still, his eyes on the door through which his younger son has just disappeared, as though he's trying to work something out.

It's not meant to be like that, and so Justine turns to Tom, gives him a bright smile. "We're-we're fully approving" she says, to Ed this time, even as Daniel makes a small noise in his throat, staring at the camera behind his chair, the French doors hanging open on the defiantly empty living room, something hard and angry rising in Justine's throat so she couldn't swallow if she wanted to. She smiles at Tom, hard and bright, the room straining slightly around her as it struggles to get back into the positions it's meant to find.

* * *

There's a camera behind Daniel's chair. Sam has gone through the living room door, and Daniel thinks he should get down and make sure Sam's OK, because Sam's littler than he is, but Zia's already following him, and Daniel can't remember if him or Sam is meant to stay in here or not, and Mummy's voice went all hard when she called out his name.

Her eyes went hard too, when she saw Zia pick Daniel up when he came into the living room. Mummy had been sitting at the table, but Daniel had wanted to tell Zia about the cameras and how he hadn't liked them.

"I've been fright-" he'd said, looking up at Zia, and something had changed in Zia's face, like a flinch, and when she'd hugged him, she'd held on a little too long.

But then Daddy's friend Tom had said to Daddy "Can you go in with Tom?" and Zia had held onto him a second longer, before she'd taken Daniel's hand and led him over to Daddy, though nobody's talked to him since he sat down at the table.

The camera's behind his chair, though, and Daniel knows that that's always filming them, so he waves at it.

The camera doesn't do anything but the man behind it laughs, and Daniel smiles, because the man knows he's there. He waves again, reaches out to tap the lens.

"We're-we're fully approving" Mummy's saying to Daddy behind him, but Daniel lets the words glide over his head because he doesn't know what they mean.

"Mmm-ee-" He bites into his toast, watching the camera watch him. "Mmm-mmm-" He hums, watching the camerman laugh. "Mmm-mm-mm-"

"Daniel" Mummy says a second later, her voice a little more tight, but Daniel keeps looking at the camera and the cameraman, who keeps laughing and looking right back, like they really see him.

* * *

"Oh, happy Sunday" is George's reaction as he sees Ed Balls walking into the studio.

"Great to see you, too" Balls tells him, slumping down on the couch as he's miced up.

"No one with you?" George asks, peering over Balls' shoulder, as though expecting someone else to amble onto the TV set any second.

"Nah, couldn't get any of them out of bed" Balls says, peering over the head of the studio assistant. "I didn't see either of yours' out there."

George shrugs, leaning against the back of the couch and nearly falling over as he does so. "Didn't know you were coming on at first."

"Didn't know you'd show up without Alexander in tow."

George arches an eyebrow at him. "The cameras aren't on, yet."

Balls' gaze holds his with a grin. "Well, that's going to be-you've just got predictable in your arguments, haven't you?"

"Last time, we had the finance ministers' from all three parties-" George drawls, examining his fingernails critically as the studio assistant adds powder to his cheeks. "It's only fair that we do the same this time, etc., etc.-"

"You're loving this, aren't you-" Balls glances at George's fingernails. "You-are they _manicured_ -I bet you have spa days with Frances, don't you, there's no way your hair's that dark naturally-"

"How dare you." George doesn't bother to look up from his fingernails. "My hair is entirely natural, I'll have you know."

Balls' hand creeps along the back of the couch. "Bet it's not. You're awfully indiscreet, you know. Like your policies-"

"Balls, are you stroking me?"

* * *

Nancy stares up at the grey blazer, the blouse covered in what looks like dark blue diamonds linked by scarlet thread, the maroon jumper with the gold outline of Year 7 underneath the school crest, and the grey pleated skirt that Bea's forever getting into trouble for yanking up.

"We can't get you it yet" Mum tells her, eyeing the uniform critically. "At the rate you're growing, you'd have sprouted out of it by the time September comes around."

Nancy eyes it warily. "Do I have to wear all of it?"

"That's what it says, Nance, so I'm going to guess that they're quite keen on it."

Elwen wrinkles his nose, reaching out to touch the jumper doubtfully. "It's kind of rough."

Nancy does the same, looking at it even more doubtfully. "Can't we customise it?" she says, looking at Mum hopefully-she's used to her St Mary Abbots uniform, which seems far more comfortable than this, especially her school sweatshirt.

"I'm going to take a wild guess that that isn't going to be popular, Nance."

Nancy frowns at the uniform critically. "Bea said one girl in her year got detention for having her collarbone showing" she tells Mum, stepping back and wondering whether or not unbuttoning the crisp collar of the blouse would be worth withstanding a detention. Something about the story Bea had told her on Saturday, the way the teacher had stared critically at the small expanse of skin beneath the girl's collar, had sent a wave of revulsion through Nancy, even if she hadn't quite understood why.

"Yeah, well, having your collarbone show would be quite some feat in that."

Nancy casts the uniform another dark look and thinks that if the clothes are as unbearable as they look, she could probably manage it.

* * *

"The Chancellor is still with me and we're joined once again by his would-be nemesis, Ed Balls-welcome back to you both-"

Balls' eyes glint happily. George slightly arches an eyebrow at him before they both turn back to Marr.

"Now, one of the things that happened at the last election-we've had a long and very, very boring discussion about whether or not there'll be leader interviews-but the last general election, you debated with Alistair Darling and Nick Clegg-"

"Mmm-"

"Would you do the same thing again with Ed Balls this time round?"

George can feel Ed's grin even before he turns to face him.

"Well, I'm sure we'll have a debate of-er-the various finance spokesmen of the different parties-we had one at the last election-but I think it's sensible to let the broadcasters and the party leaders work out their plan-"

If they ever do, at this point. There's no way Lynton will let Dave take part in three head-to-heads with Miliband, even if he has to tape him to the floor.

George almost winces as he thinks the words _head-to-heads._

"And then-" He turns to Balls, with a grin, as Balls meets his gaze, mouth twitching slightly. "We'll work out our plans-but-" He arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm looking forward to it, Ed."

"Well-"

"Ed, are you-are you keen on this debate-would that-"

"I-I think-of course, and in fact, I'd like to go further-"

Oh great.

"George and I don't need the broadcasters to sort these-"

George can't help but nearly laugh, at the sheer audacity of it.

"-things out-George is not a coward-" He can tell Balls is trying not to grin. "David Cameron doesn't want a head-to-head with Ed Miliband-"

George can tell from the twitch of Balls' mouth that he's not the only one who's picked up on the words.

"But I'm very happy-" He meets George's gaze, the grin definitely in his eyes this time. "I will have a head-to-head debate-" Balls' mouth twitches again, very nearly laughing. "Just the two of us-"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"The two potential Chancellors-during the election campaign-" Balls glances back at him. "And you can say now-are you up for it?"

George could kick him, which he lets Balls know with a second-too-long stare. But then, kicking Balls on live television isn't likely to help the campaign. Or shut Balls up. He'd be begging for a one-to-one debate from the ambulance stretcher.

"Well, look, as I say-happy to have these-"

"We can sort it out-"

"-Chancellors' debates, as we did in the last election-"

"Come on, George-" Balls has got his hand out. George looks at him, eyebrow raised. "Let's go for it-"

"Well, I'm h-happy to meet you-in a debate-"

"We should shake on it and go for it-one-to-one-"

George is hugely tempted, as he hears Marr laughing, to ask why Balls is so desperate to get their hands together, but he restrains himself. Just.

"One-to-one-"

"Ed, I'm not gonna-why-I'm, I'm-"

"One-to-one-one-to-one-" Balls shuts up slightly as George takes his hand-George reserves that for future notice.

"Well-we're gonna see who else-"

"One-to-one?" Balls widens his eyes innocently.

"-wants to be a part of that-"

"In-oh no-"

"I've got a very effective Chief Secretary-"

"Yeah-"

"-who I think would also want to be a part of that debate-"

"Yeah, you made a very-"

"If it was-"

"If David Cameron was up for a one-to-one debate-"

Oh, shut up, George thinks, half with exasperation and half fondness.

"-like George, we'd be all right, but inst-for some reason, David Cameron's running scared-"

"I think we should include Danny Alexander-"

If he can hold onto his bloody seat.

"No, no, one-to-one-" Balls is giving Marr a wide-eyed look. "We just shook on it!"

"Well-" George has no idea whether he's going to laugh or kick him, and right now, either option looks enticing.

"You-you-there is a horrible-"

"If-"

"-horrible rumour going around Westminster-" Marr eyeballs them both, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "That actually, although you may disagree on various things-you get on very well."

Oh, shut up, George thinks childishly.

"Is that true?" Marr is glancing between them, mischief dancing in his eyes.

George glances at Ed, Ed's gaze meeting his own, and knows both of them are trying not to burst out laughing.

He tries to tell himself that he hates that he knows that, but he doesn't even convince himself.

* * *

"Did it-" Bradby pauses, mulling the words over. "I suppose, people are always interested to know-erm-going back to the beginning-"

Ed keeps his eyes on Bradby, but he's conscious of Justine sitting next to him, her posture having very slightly stiffened at the words.

"We need to do the whole how-did-you-meet stuff" Tom had said, with a wave of the hand, as though the small matter of how one met was rather unimportant. "It worked well for Gordon-it doesn't have to be a big thing, just have it in there-*"

Ed had had a sense that the children would be absent for this part; but he hadn't anticipated just how much of a relief it would be. While the cameras hadn't filmed them eating their breakfast, Daniel had squirmed and wriggled, as though feeling the absence of the lens that had, momentarily at least, been fixed on him. Sam, meanwhile, hadn't been coaxed into the dining room at all-after another attempt by Justine to pick him up, he'd snuffled into Zia's shoulder sufficiently that she'd taken him into the kitchen to eat, Daniel calling out mournfully after them, and when Tom had said in an undertone that it needed to be just them for this part, it had been almost too much of a relief to ask Zia to take them into the living room, the French doors shutting a little too loudly between them.

"Was it kind of a-instant courtship-" Bradby's glancing between them. "Was it-like, a slow-"

Justine turns to smile at him, a little too brightly. It doesn't reach her eyes which seem to have sharpened, a little too watchful, her lips which have pressed together momentarily, as though restraining herself from saying his words.

Ed manages to laugh. The sound's a little too high-pitched, as it always is when he has to force himself to laugh, but Justine laughs too, her shoulders sinking slightly, as though relieved.

"What-what did you first see in Ed-"

Ed already knows what she's going to say-Tom would never let them answer a question like this without knowing what they were going to say. The words are easy-should be easy. He's said them enough times over the years, in various forms-it had been one of the first things he and Stewart had talked about, the night he became leader, the air still reverberating slightly, disbelievingly, between them in their hotel room. "They're going to have a hard enough time with the fact you aren't married. They need you to go overboard with how you met."

"I think-I remember-" Justine's laughing, the words sounding less rehearsed this time, and Ed has the sudden thought, sharp as an arrow: _She's good at this._ And he doesn't know why it feels uncharitable.

They've agreed to let Justine tell this bit. Ed had agreed too quickly, too easily, but even talking about it, over this table, he'd felt himself glance over at the wall behind the French doors and for a moment, he'd been pressed against Cameron's chest there, Cameron's head falling back against the wall, his breath hot and rapid against Ed's neck, and Ed had had to get up and walk to the kitchen under the guise of making a cup of tea so he could sit on the stairs, and let his head fall into his hands, fighting off a sudden twisting pang of nausea.

He and Stephanie had been going out at the time. Ed had never been sure what going out meant, really. He'd known there was a difference between going out and being someone's boyfriend, but he'd never really managed or wanted to feel out the delineation between the two, that everyone else seemed to grasp naturally, like reaching out to take hold of a door handle. If he'd been honest with himself, he would have said that he'd never really wanted to.

But he and Stephanie had been going out and so when Stephanie had had a dinner party, it had been Ed's job to have a dinner party with her, even if they weren't making a big deal out of being together. He'd liked Stephanie-she was sharp and the first time they'd met years ago, when she was dating Balls, she'd been able to tell him the latest fluctuations in the stock market without looking anything up once. She was comfortable to be with and Ed had fallen into the habit of being with her over the past couple of months.

He'd been standing in the middle of the room, taking sips from the Diet Coke he'd poured himself while Stephanie and the others had opened a wine whose name Ed hadn't been able to remember, idly wondering if he'd have a chance to slip away and check the Red Sox stats at any point, when a voice had said "Hello."

Ed had looked up to see Justine standing next to him. He'd never met her before at that point, and looking at her then, he'd noticed she was wearing something long and purple, with a knitted cardigan over the top. Her cheeks had been freckled, her eyes a little overlarge, as though trying a little too hard to be earnest, and the attempt at earnestness had flickered something in Ed's brain: this was someone he should be talking to, as she stood there looking at him, middle-class and thrifted and almost pretty.

"-Ed Miliband, was it his fashion sense that finally-"

Bradby's laughing, leaning on the table, so casual. Justine's smiling, getting ready to launch into the story that Ed already knows, has already practised with her and Tom beforehand.

And so Ed laughs and says "Definitely not", the same way he'd said "Hi, nice to meet you!" a little too enthusiastically at that dinner party, sticking out his hand to take hers', because he'd known it was what he was supposed to do.

* * *

"I remember seeing you-"

Justine plays the words of the story again in her mind, her hands squeezing together in her lap, the way they had as a child when she was trying to recall her times tables, her father's eyes resting on her, waiting to not be disappointed.

"I remember seeing Ed-" She takes a deep breath. She can feel Ed's gaze on her. That's good, and his managing to do that makes her feel an almost uncomfortable rush of affection towards him.

"Er-I'd been single for years, it felt like-"

She hadn't known Stephanie that well, and usually Frances would have been with her at a party like this. But Frances had been busy with George and the children-Liberty was at the toddling stage now, and it sometimes made Justine tense around her, hating the teetering feeling of uncertainty when Liberty held up her arms or beamed winsomely around.

But she'd been invited and Stephanie, with her long face and politics degree and BBC job , was the sort of person whose parties she was supposed to go to. So Justine went.

She'd been walking into the living room, trying to look busy, nursing a glass of orange juice, trying not to notice how everyone else was drinking wine. Maybe she shouldn't have come without Frances. Or Quincy, who she's known since law school. When one of them is there, Justine knows what to talk about.

"And I remember seeing Ed-"

She can feel Ed's gaze on her. It makes her shift slightly, the words feel a little heavier in her mouth.

"Standing-er-"

One of the boys' voices, which have been murmuring away on the other side of the door, suddenly rises in a protesting wail. "That was _mean-"_

Tom glances at the door, and Justine feels Ed tense next to her. Her next words are quicker.

"-u-unattached in the middle of a room-"

She'd spotted Ed almost immediately, because he was standing on his own. He'd been clutching a glass of Coke in his hand, staring into space. Justine had told herself afterwards he'd looked like he was thinking.

"-and I thought "I can't believe my luck!""-she manages to smile-"-so I went over to chat to him."

But what she remembers thinking as she walked up to him is that, like her, Ed was the only other person in the room who was alone.

* * *

"And you-"

"But I was attached."

Ed says it without thinking. He doesn't think Tom will mind-he's said he was already going out with someone when he met Justine. But maybe something about the way his mind lingered on Sam's voice on the other side of the door or something about the way Justine clearly knew every word off by heart niggles in his chest, and he says it before he can think twice.

"But you were-" Justine's gaze catches his for less than a second, but Ed meets her eyes and there's something there like a flinch.

And then she's looking away from him and saying "Well, yeah", shrugging slightly, laughing, and Ed laughs too, rearing back from whatever niggle had made him say that. Justine reaches out towards him, and Ed forces himself to lean into the touch, her hand squeezing his arm a little too hard, like she's never touched it before.

* * *

"That mi-minor thing aside-"

"Is that-" Tom, standing by the door, has stepped forward and Bradby glances at him. "Are we-still OK-"

Ed looks at him. "Is the-do you need a word or-"

For a moment, he's sure Tom's going to say yes. But then Rachel touches his arm, and, after a long moment of silence, Tom shakes his head and steps back. "No, we're-we're fine-" Rachel murmurs something and Tom's head jerks slightly, as though trying to shake off a fly. "Just-have Ed speak a little more-"

"OK-"

"So we can-keep going-OK-"

"Do you want to-" Bradby's turned his attention back to them. "Do you want-what do you remember of that first meeting, did you have any-any inkling or-"

"Errr-" Ed's fiddling with his wedding ring, twisting it round his finger. "Err-we-"

"We had a very funny chat, didn't we?" Justine says, with the air of offering a helping hand.

"We did have a-"

"-a very funny-"

"I remember-Iiiii-I mean-you know-"

"It was very funny."

They'd chatted a little bit, then, Ed remembers-"Justine" Justine had told him, with a smile bigger than Ed was used to-"Justine Thornton, I'm-er-I'm a barrister-"

She hadn't looked fazed when he'd told her he was a special adviser-but then, he probably wasn't the only one there. "Do you know Adrian?" she'd said at one point, glancing around the room. "He's-er-we're colleagues-"

Ed hadn't, which had made him feel slightly awkward, and then Stephanie had come up to them, and they hadn't really spoken again until dinner, when they'd been sat across fro each other. Stephanie and him hadn't really been open about the fact they were dating yet, another rule that Ed didn't understand but was happy to acquiesce to. Ed had been chatting with someone he can't remember now, but Justine had been sitting across from him.

"-when you look at what actually stimulates the economy-"

Ed had shaken his head. "There's an argument for Keynesian economics" he'd conceded, nearly missing his mouth with his fork, he was so intent on making his point. "But honestly, even _there_ there's the potential for inequality-"

Ed had leant back in his chair and as he had, he'd felt Justine's shoe brush his under the table and he'd glanced up to see her watching him, a strange look on her face he couldn't quite pin down.

"But-"-the other man had been laughing. "If you're going to argue that Keynesian economics isn't left-wing enough, where do you-where do you start, really-" and Ed had looked back at him to continue the discussion, but it hadn't been until later that he'd remembered the look on Justine's face, like she'd just grabbed the answer to a question she'd been searching for for a long time.

"But we had this-"

"But-but look, I-" Justine shrugs, hands in the air, _what-can-you-do_ , but Ed hears the sudden tautness in her voice, catches the keen glance she sends him out of the corner of her eye, knows they're suddenly on what could be thin ice.

"First ever conversation-"

He can feel Justine staring at him, hard.

"And it was-it was a-sort of weird-"

He feels Justine tense slightly.

"Because it was a very-" He turns to her, backpedalling slightly. "It was a kind of slightly-awkward conversation?"

Justine scratches her eye, but she's not looking at him. She's staring at the tablecloth, leaving Ed to fend for himself.

"And yet I always-" Ed's floundering a little, searching for the words to pluck out of the air. "From that moment on, I thought-"

As he struggles to unscramble something to say, he has a sudden, viciously sharp thought: Cameron would never struggle to speak like this about Samantha.

The thought curls angrily in his chest, small and sour, and Ed rams it down hard under the words.

"-knew-there was something special about Justine" he finishes, the words hanging in the silence that's fallen over the table, Justine still looking past him, Bradby's gaze moving a little too keenly between them, and the cameras set up at either end of the table, watching it all.

* * *

Justine hates economics. She always has, but dinner party conversations in Primrose Hill contain more economics than you'd probably find anywhere else, and so when she'd heard Ed Miliband talking about economics at that dinner party, her first instinct had been one of a resigned boredom.

But she'd been sitting opposite him, and so she'd had to listen to him talk, and it was when he'd mentioned inequality that she'd looked up at him.

"Keynesian economics are progressive" Ed had been saying earnestly, to one of the other guests across the table. "But if you look at it in terms of eliminating inequality-"

"But you've got to admit-" the other man had said, laughing slightly, leaning back in his chair, as though this was just a dinner-party conversation-which, to him, it was. "The idea that we could completely eradicate inequality-I mean, that _is_ heading into the realm of utopian politics, most people would agree."

Ed's fingers had curled round the edge of the table, Justine had noticed, his jaw tensing slightly.

"Maybe in some ways" he'd said, after a moment, his voice tightly controlled. "But it doesn't have to be."

Justine had looked at him, then. Not at him, how he looked, but at his face as he looked at the other man, as he reined in his enthusiasm for what he was saying. He looked, Justine had noticed though she wouldn't have let herself realise it yet, exactly how she'd felt standing in Brussels, hearing her mentor talk about the environment.

She'd let the talk fall into her ears then, waving over any economic terms she didn't grasp, kept her eyes on Ed as he spoke, all his sentences centred around ideas, which he clung onto in each conversation with each person, as though they were the only thing keeping him afloat. As though they were central to his person.

But now, she knows that bringing up economics is the last thing Tom and Rachel and everyone else would want. And Bradby's watching them and Ed's already interrupted the flow once and so it's up to her to get it right. It's always up to her to get it right.

"Both had a sense of humour?" she tries, starting to laugh, but hesitating, waiting until Ed's eyes find hers', willing him to join in with her.

"Both had a sense of humour?" he says, eyes almost painfully wide, and Justine feels frustration snarl in her chest, because you need to, you need to realise what-

"Which, it turns out-" It's Bradby who saves them, pulling both of their gazes back to him in the same easy way that Cameron and all of Ed's opponents do, which makes Justine feel an irrational jolt of irritation at the man in front of her, who's done nothing wrong other than interview them, and find it easy.

"You need-"

"We need!" Ed says it a bit too loudly, and laughs a little too quickly, so that Justine has to laugh too, but at least he says it.

"We nee-we need!" She lets one of her hands rise and fall, a _what-can-you-do_ gesture, leans back in her chair a little, relieved at the natural close of the conversation, counting the moments until Ed glances at Tom in the corner and says "Was that-"

"Yeah-that was-that was good, yeah-"

"But honestly, even _there_ , there's the potential for inequality" Ed had said back then, still clinging to his idea, and Justine had watched him, taking in the way he held onto it so grimly, and had wanted to fasten her hands alongside his, holding fast to an idea that could keep them both from drowning.

* * *

David ends up meeting them on the corner, and Daniel's wearing a red nose.

"They had Red Nose Day on Friday" Zia explains pre-emptively, juggling Sam slightly on her hip. "Daniel doesn't want to take it off."

David, in answer, points back at the car, where Florence is sitting, next to a protection officer, her own small nose concealed by the red circular blob she'd brought home on Friday afternoon.

Zia follows his gaze to the car. "I forget I don't have to-" she says, and then trails off.

David crouches down in front of Daniel, taps his nose. "I like this" he tells him with a smile, and Daniel frowns doubtfully, but then winds around David's leg. Something about the need of the gesture makes something ache in David's chest.

"Ed and Justine were busy" Zia says, with only a modicum of sarcasm in her voice. "So I brought them down-Ed said he'd pick them up, though-"

"I can text him." David leaps on this a little too easily. He hadn't seen Miliband on Friday, despite the fact that each leader had been taken into the TV studios to gain a preview of what the place will look like on the night of the 7-way debate-he'd got a glimpse of Nick, leaving as he went in, but not Miliband. "Tell him to bring gloves, I didn't, and my hands are freezing-"

Zia eyes him, perhaps a little too long, but nods. "As long as he's-" She glances back up the street at the house. "Finished by then-he should be along to-

Sam squirms suddenly, and Daniel says "There are cameras in my house" from the bottom of David's leg.

Zia flinches slightly, for less than a second. David lifts Daniel up on instinct, surprised at how easily the little boy's arms and legs wrap around him. "Are there-"

"Daddy being _filmed"_ Daniel says, half-into David's neck, his red nose squashing slightly against his shoulder.

Sam makes a cross, wordless little sound.

"Oh, and Sam's allergic to peanuts" Zia says, meeting his gaze. "So if you get them any of the pic n' mix-it should say, but you can't always tell with chocolate, so make sure to ask at the counter if it's got any in-"

David, who's juggling Daniel gently, notices Sam reaching out a hand for him. He grabs it, shaking it gently up and down. "Does he-does he have any medications for if something-"

Zia watches him for a moment, as though debating something, then brings out a small bag.

"It isn't likely" she says, though David hasn't asked. "But this is what you give him if he seems to be having a reaction."

Inside the bag is a hypodermic needle in a small see-through packet.

"Do you know how to give injections?" Zia says, more softly now. David looks up, meeting her eyes over Daniel's head.

"Yeah" he says, more slowly."That, I know how to do."

* * *

Sam isn't tall enough to see higher than the shelves by the floor, but there are rows and rows of brightly-coloured sweet packets. He can smell something warm and sweet, like the popcorn that Zia makes for them sometimes.

"Do you want some-" Florence's daddy, David, lifts him up, so that Sam can see the shelves. He's already looking around at the big pillars, which look like icing cream that's been whipped into a circle that stands up. "Do you want some of the popcorn-"

Sam nods, very fast. He looks down for Daniel, who's wrapped around Florence's daddy's leg, and Daniel's reaching up for him.

"Yes, we want pop-popcorn-" Daniel's voice climbs up to him, and he jumps up and down. They can only have popcorn when Zia's there. Mummy gives them things like malt loaf, which is full of fruit and things that Mummy says are nice but aren't.

"Do you?" Florence's daddy has Florence on his shoulders. "Do you want some-shall we have a look at some of the jelly sweets as well-"

Sam wriggles excitedly. Mummy never lets them have jelly sweets, and when Florence's daddy lowers him down to look at all the bright colours, Sam forgets about back at the house and the cameras.

* * *

"We are watching Shaun The _Sheep"_ Florence tells Sam, when they're sitting in the cinema. Daddy's sitting on Sam's other side, with Florence in the middle of Sam and Daniel. Daddy's friends Chris and Paul are at either end of the aisle. There aren't lots of people in here, but some people are turning round to look at them. Florence waves happily back at them.

"I like the-" Sam drums his feet against the seat, and Daniel leans forward to look at him. "The-"

"The called-" Sam tilts his head back and Daddy gently puts a finger over his mouth. Sam giggles, and Daddy hands him a jelly snake. Sam bites its' head off happily. Daddy's given each of them a small packet of popcorn that he fills from the big packet.

Florence grabs both of their hands and gives Daniel a jelly strawberry because he doesn't have many in his bag. "On the big screen, the-it gets really _big_ " she informs them, kicking her legs. "And then the adverts are _loud."_

She looks at Daniel, who's staring around the big room, taking in the huge screen that stretches from wall to wall. "Don't you-don't you go to the cinema at home?" she asks, trying to keep her voice quiet like Daddy says they need to.

Daniel shakes his head. "Zia takes us to the cinema, but Mummy says we-she said we have to go to the museum last time-" he says, and he rolls his eyes, which Florence can't do yet.

Florence doesn't mind museums, because Daddy always carries her and tells her stories about the things they see, but at the moment, she'd like to see Shaun The Sheep much more. She offers Daniel another jelly strawberry in sympathy.

* * *

Sam doesn't always like loud noises, so Daniel keeps looking at him behind Florence's head. Florence is bouncy between them, and she keeps patting Sam's hand, but Daniel needs to keep watching him. Earlier on, after Zia had taken him out of the dining room, Sam had still been upset about the cameras, even when Daniel told him that they were on the other side of the big tall doors in the living room now, where they couldn't hurt him: "That was _mean!"_

When Sam makes a fussy sound, Daniel wriggles to the edge of his seat, in case Florence's daddy's on his phone and doesn't hear. He leans out into the aisle, holding onto the arms of the seats.

But Florence's daddy is already lifting Sam onto his knee, rocking him back and forth. Daniel can see his dark curly head peeking over Florence daddy's elbow.

Daniel is very, very certain then, in the way only young children can be. He's too young to really know what he is certain of, but as he turns back to the screen, he knows, very firmly in his chest, that Sam is safe on Florence's daddy's knee and that their daddy would have been on his phone.

* * *

"Right-" Tom glances up at Ed. "Are you sure you, you don't want Justine in the room for this bit, we could ask her to come in if that's, that's more comfortable-"

"No, no, it'th-" Ed shakes his head."It'th-it would be too-I don't want to put it-on her-"

He's not entirely sure why he's declining it-back during the leadership election, Justine had usually been there, even in the corners of the room, so that Ed could glance over at her, any time his resolve might have wavered.

"OK." Tom glances at the cameraman, then at Tom, Stewart, Anna, and Rachel, all standing in between the French doors or at the dining table. "OK-I think we-we're ready?"

"Yeah, we're rolling-"

"OK, so-" Tom threads his fingers together. "Back in 2010-in that leadership contest-"

Ed tries to sit as still as he can. The arm of the chair is uncomfortably rigid, but he squeezes his hands together. It's meant to look casual, but it's making Ed feel as though he's one inch away from falling off.

"I remember watching you-both of you-come out-"

Ed takes a long, deep breath. Tries to keep his breathing even.

"You both, in your own ways-" Tom is watching him keenly. "Did look very, very shocked."

_Ed had felt all of them turn towards him very slightly, the words reverberating in the air. Collins had been staring at him, as though wondering if Ed had heard what he just said._

_"Congratulations" he'd said, but Ed had barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. The brush of his brother's arm next to him._

Ed becomes aware he's pulling in his bottom lip between his teeth. He stops but a moment later, finds himself doing it again, even as he tries to laugh.

"And I do wonder-" Tom's voice is gentle but his blue eyes are sharp. "Not that it would necessarily have changed things, but had you thought through or were prepared for the emotional impact?"

Ed tries not to suck his lip again.

"Of what would happen if you won-" Tom's eyes rest uncompromisingly on his face. "Is that fair?"

_"It's just-I can't imagine how hard this is for you" Oona had said on the phone the night before. Ed hadn't known her that well, hadn't even recognised her from school, but somehow she had his phone number-but then everyone seemed to, by then._

_"Yeth" he'd said, voice biting in his throat. "It's really hard."_

_"Look-" Stewart had leaned back in his chair. "You've got to-we've got to accept that at the least, he's going to be very disappointed."_

_Ed had sat on the edge of the couch, worrying his lip between his teeth. He'd felt Justine's hand on his arm, squeezing slightly, strengthening his resolve._

_"But-" Justine's eyes had darted away from his, then back. "Are you-I know it sounds, it sounds harsh, but you-you don't have anything to feel guilty about if you're-you're not willing to let-David's-" She seemed to hesitate over his name-"-his disappointment stop you from standing."_

"I think it had a-more bruising impact on David than I-" The words swell in his throat a little. "Mm-than I-thought. Erm-"

He looks away, an ominous prickling behind his eyes.

_"It is a shame-" Marion had said, halfway down the motorway, baby Sam fast asleep in the baby chair, Daniel fussing, strapped in next to him. "That David's away this Christmas."_

_Ed had felt Justine, who had kept up a steady flow of breezy chatter the entire drive so far, stiffen, as she fell silent. For some reason, he'd been quite grateful for it._

_"Just a shame" his mother had said and Ed's fingers had tightened on the wheel.*_

"And-erm-you know-"

He can feel his thumb flickering out reflexively at his side. He stares at the carpet until it blurs.

"That was obviously sad" he manages, almost stumbling over the words. "I-"

He forces himself to look back at Tom, swallowing hard. "I feel we've come a long way since then?" He hates the way his voice rises in a question.

Tom nods, watching him closely, but doesn't offer him anything else.

"You know, he's got his own job." Ed's looked away before he can stop himself, his hands moving, as though trying to grab a firmer hold of the words. "His own l-" His voice trembles. "Life in New York."

_"Louise and I just don't think it's-" David hesitated. Ed had had the feeling it was deliberate. "Appropriate." David had stressed the word ever so slightly. "Given some of the history between some of our advisers."_

_Ed's throat had ached, tightening. "But thith is-" He'd swallowed, cleared his throat. "This is your leaving party."_

_"Yes, well-" David's voice had tightened too. "Louise doesn't want it-overshadowed." He'd cleared his own throat. "And I agree with her."_

_Ed had sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, almost gnawing at it. "I-you know the preth will talk" he'd said, straightening up slightly, even though David couldn't see him. Attempting to sound grown-up, mature. Someone David could take seriously, even now._

_"Well-" David's voice, smooth until now, had suddenly curled slightly, almost sardonically. "You've never minded that before."_

_Ed had felt his grip on the phone tighten._

"Er-a-and much happier-er-you know-rather than b-sort of being here and being sort of-" He'd swallowed hard. "You know-in the slightly awkward position. Erm-"

 _And not having to see you_ rings unspoken through the room.

Ed bites his lip, glancing away at the French doors. Perhaps he should have asked for Justine to be in here. She'd have stepped in at this point, told them to stop filming. She'd have taken his hands and talked to him firmly, calmly. She'd have reminded him of what she'd said when he'd decided to stand. Of why he'd decided to stand.

Ed looks away from the doors.

"I don't regret for a moment standing." Ed says the words quickly, looking back at Tom, forcing himself to meet his gaze.

_"What if I can't do this?" He'd been standing at the front door, tugging at the sleeves of his suit. His tie had felt too loose, then too tight._

_Justine had taken his hand and tilted his chin up, but it hadn't felt gentle. She'd looked up at him, her too-wide eyes widening even more._

_"You can do it" she'd said. "If he wasn't your brother, you'd be doing it."_

_But he is his brother, and Ed wondered if he should try to make Justine understand this. If he should ask her about Alex._

_But Stewart was waiting at the end of the path, and Justine was looking at him, and the words had died away._

_"Life's an adventure" she'd said, tapping his chest, with a smile that peeked out a little unnervingly. "And you've got to seize the day."_

_Ed had wanted to say something else, anything. But instead he'd nodded, and turned to the door._

Tom doesn't say anything, but his eyebrow arches disbelievingly.

Ed stares back at him defiantly. "I don't" he says, but his voice almost cracks and Tom watches him and this time, Ed is the first to look away.

* * *

"This is like a pyramid" Florence tells Daniel, earnestly, as the three of them stand at the top of the slide inside one of the tall buildings that look like triangles. "And it's our castle."

"If it's-if it's our castle, why are we going _down?"_ Daniel asks her, his little fingers still tinged scarlet after gripping the red scramble net tunnels that lead up into the teepee-shaped wooden climbing frames. Daddy brought them to the playground while they wait for Daniel and Sam's daddy to collect them. He said it's near The Old House where they used to live, before Daddy had to be Prime Minister.

"Because it's our castle and we can-we can look _after it"_ Florence tells him, sitting down at the top of the slide with a pat, and the logic that makes sense to small children.

"When we-" Daniel crouches down to tell her, taking Sam's fingers in his and blowing on them. "When we went to a playground before, there were-my foot got stuck in a _swing-"_

"We didn't get-a hundred and fifty seven" Sam informs her, peering out of one of the triangle-shaped windows.

"Did you-did you have to go to hospital-" Florence asks, her eyes gratifyingly wide for Daniel.

"No, but-my foot got stuck and Mummy wouldn't-Mummy wouldn't take it out-"

"Mummy cross" says Sam, sadly, turning away from the window and sitting down behind her, making Florence wriggle back slightly, so she isn't pushed down the tube slide.

"We-is your ankle better-"

"Yeah, it-let's go down the _slide-"_ Daniel announces, and he moves Sam in front of him so he can be at the back and in charge, because the others are smaller.

"Yeah, let's-let's-Sam, hold onto my arms-" Florence says, so that Sam's between her and Daniel.

She wriggles forward, Daniel sitting himself down behind them, his legs either side of Sam's waist. "OK-"

"One-" Daniel counts, and then "Two-we're-we're _going now,_ Sam-"

Florence pushes off, and because Sam's holding onto her, he follows. Daniel pushes himself off too, and the three of them slide down, their giggles echoing off the inside of the metal cylinder, so that by the time they spill out of the bottom, into the chilly evening air, they could, for a few moments, be any other children.

* * *

"OK, we've-we've-" Matt had stepped in a moment after that last question to check something with the cameraman. "We've-are we ready again?"

"Just one more question" Tom calls from the dining room, his voice the tiniest bit sharper, his eyes flickering between the other Tom and Ed.

"Sure, about the-the relationship as it is now-" Tom looks back at Ed. "That OK with you?"

"Sure." Ed says it a little too quickly, nods a little too hard. The word a little too thick in his throat.

"OK, so-" Tom wraps his hands together for a moment. "You say sometimes-you use the phrase _healing-"_

"Yeah-"

"-rather than _healed."_

"Yeah." Ed glances at the doors before he can stop himself, then back. "I think healing's is the-is the honest truth." He swallows, aware that this isn't enough. "You know, I -I don't-I-I think i-it was a hard-thing-" The word catches in his throat. "And-there isn't-"

"Yeah, he was very upset at the time-" Tom's voice is a little sharper now. "I remember that-"

"Yeah, yeah-"

"I remember seeing him-" Tom's voice is more pointed now, his eyes very sharp.

Ed swallows, his palms suddenly damp. "Yeah-"

"In the immediate aftermath-and he was-clearly was very upset." Tom's voice is definitely pointed this time.

"Yeah-"

Ed knows if he looks over at the dining room, Tom or Rachel will cut the interview. They'll cut the interview and they'll have to cobble together something out of what they already have.

So Ed looks back at Tom.

"And he's in America now, and all-and all that-"

The words stick in his throat, and he lets his gaze fall to the carpet.

"So there's obviously been, you know-"

"Yeah-"

"It's had some-"

His eyes move restlessly over the carpet, trying not to think of last week. David's voice on the phone.

_Wasn't that the point? You said you wanted to move on-from what I represent..._

"It's had repercussions-ermmmm-"

He sits there, pinned down by the sets of eyes staring at him. Tom's, the other Tom's, Rachel's, Stewart's, Anna's. Matt's. Behind him, he can feel the eyes of himself in the photographs staring at him, Justine's, Daniel's and Sam's. He suddenly realises he hasn't even looked at whichever ones Anna and Rachel picked out, and wonders if any of them are ones they haven't released on Christmas cards.

There aren't any of David, he already knows.

He shrugs slightly, wriggling under their gaze. Like a bug about to be pinned. "It's-"

"Will you-" Ed feels a rush of gratitude at Tom's voice, before remembering he can't know if it's a rescue. "Will you-do you feel confident that you'll one day get to the point where it's totally water under the bridge, between you?"

This, at least, he knows how to answer. Ed jumps in, almost tripping over the rehearsed words.

"I-I do, I think so-I think so-I think-it'll take time-"

"Yeah." That's all Tom says. But his eyes aren't sharp now, they're sympathetic and Ed feels something rise indignantly in his chest.

"I think this election is a good-" He musters the words defiantly. "Is a sort of hump in the road to get over as well-"

"Yeah." Tom's voice is softer this time, and Ed hates it.

"You know-ermmm-" But the indignation that had strengthened his voice a few seconds earlier has left him, and he looks away, struggling to collect some of his thoughts, his hands wrapping together, for something to hold onto.

"And then you move on" he says, just for something to say, and he stares at the carpet, eyes blurring, praying Tom won't ask him anything else.

"And then you-OK, I think that's-" Tom glances at the cameraman, then at the others. "Is that-did you get what you-"

"Yeah, I think that's-" Tom claps his hands, voice a little too loud, giving Ed a moment to collect himself. Matt leans in to inspect the cameras and Justine gets up from the table, that smile already there. "You were great, sweetie-"

Ed stares at the carpet and wonders, if that's true, why he feels empty.

* * *

It takes him a few moments to spot the children, even though they're the only ones in the playground when he arrives at the place Cameron texted him. It's Florence he spots first, spilling out of the bottom of a metal tube slide, her ponytail flying behind her, and then he spots Daniel, running back from round the pyramid-like structure across the wood shavings towards her.

"Stalking me?"

Ed rolls his eyes, but there's not much heart in it. He can feel Cameron standing next to him, almost measure the distance between them. It should bother him, how aware he is, the hairs on his neck stirring.

"Thanks" he says, a little too shortly, a second later, trying not to look at Cameron. "For taking them."

"What were you going to do with them, otherwise?"

Cameron's tone is perfectly friendly, but Ed glances at him sharply, defensive. "Zia was going to look after them" he says, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets. "It's not like I was going to leave them."

Cameron just arches an eyebrow, and Ed realises he's broken any attempts to not stare at him without even realising it. He looks away, trying not to sulk.

"Where's th-Sam?" he asks, after a moment, for something to say, but realising at the same time he hasn't yet caught a glimpse of his younger son.

Cameron, in answer, points upwards. Ed follows his gaze and sees Sam, crouched happily inside the pyramid climbing frame, chatting to himself while Florence and Daniel play over his head, Florence patting his curls occasionally.

"But he's scared of heights" Ed frowns, remembering vaguely something Zia had said once, after taking the boys to the park.

"I know" Cameron says, easily, hands in his navy blue winter coat that Ed, looking away, tells himself furiously does not make his cheeks look rosier than ever against the cold air at all. "But I helped him up there. There's a little scramble net thing and I just-" He mimes pushing. "Helped him up."

Of course you did, Ed thinks, with a tinge of bitterness. Of course you did. Because that's what you do, isn't it.

Cameron glances at him, then, slowly, traces his finger between Ed's eyebrows, very softly.

Ed jerks away almost violently. "What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, glancing around frantically, though there's nobody around to see and if anything, his own reaction was probably more noticeable than whatever-Ed blushes deeply, furiously, and yanks his own coat collar up further around his neck-whatever Cameron was doing. He tries to ignore the slow heat the touch has sent through him.

Cameron tilts his head, expression inscrutable. "You're frowning" he says, his voice as soft as a touch.

Ed shakes his head, looks away, cheeks burning. "I'm not. And don't-"

"Don't what?"

Ed nearly throws his hands up in the air. "We're in _public"_ he resorts to hissing, fruitlessly, at Cameron.

Cameron's grin deepens his dimples. Ed looks away, fuming.

"Filming not go well then?"

Ed snorts. "Like I'd tell you" he says, affecting a diffident air.

Cameron laughs. "You didn't need to."

Ed looks at him. "This shouldn't be easy for you" he says, before he can stop himself.

"What? Winning?"

The sheer cockiness of Cameron's grin itches under Ed's skin.

"Any of it." Ed's hands are shoved into his pockets, but he's facing Cameron now, trying not to notice the slight rumpled mess of his hair. "You shouldn't think everything's _easy_ for you-"

 _Everything shouldn't be easy for_ you hangs unspoken between them.

_Even this._

"Isn't it more-" Cameron's mouth twitches in a grin but his blue eyes are keener than ever, as they hold Ed's. "Isn't it more, really, that you resent me finding things easy because they aren't for other people?"

 _Like you_ , Ed hears loud and clear.

He turns away. Cameron's hand is already gripping his sleeve. "You know, if you do that in the debates every time I make a point you don't like, you automatically lose."

"Fuck off" Ed spits, only just remembering to lower his voice with a glance at the children. "You've got no idea what it's like for-"

He means to say _other people_ , but stops himself as he realises, horrifyingly, that the word that came to mind was _me._

Cameron's watching him quietly, his hand still in Ed's sleeve, but his eyebrows arch. "Do you?" he says, and Ed wonders if Cameron hears the unspoken word, and is asking that anyway.

He tears his sleeve away, but he doesn't move. He stands still, next to Cameron, toeing the ground with his shoe.

"How have they been?" he asks shortly. "The boys?"

Cameron shrugs slightly. "They've been fine. You're going to have to get used to Shaun The Sheep being on, though." Off Ed's look, Cameron says "They liked the film."

 _When you're there_ , Ed hears, even if it's not what Cameron meant.

"How long have you been here?" he asks instead, making an effort at conviviality.

"Only about half an hour." Cameron tugs at the red scarf around his neck and Ed curls his hands into fists to prevent himself straightening it for him. "I thought that would be long enough for them to work off some of the energy."

How do you know this stuff?

Cameron glances at him again. "It was them who told me about the filming" he says quietly, and Ed has the sensation of everything tightening, defensive, in his chest.

"Oh?" he asks, almost through gritted teeth.

Cameron doesn't say anything for a moment, which is almost worse than if he had. "I suppose" he says, slowly, after a few seconds. "Children aren't too fond of cameras, are they?"

I bet yours were, Ed thinks, almost maliciously.

"Is that what they told you?" he says, too abruptly.

Cameron shrugs. "I mean, they weren't thrilled. But they forgot about it fairly quickly."

With you, Ed thinks, definitely ungenerously this time. Of course they did.

"You know, Elwen used to be a bit distant when he was little" Cameron says, conversationally. "He was a handful. A lot of energy. Sam thinks he was the easiest of them, to be honest, but that's because she's his mum."

And he probably was, for her, Ed thinks.

Hearing Sam's name like that, so casually, makes him wince.

"Plus, when I was Leader Of The Opposition-" Cameron trails his sleeve along the wooden beam they're standing beside, part of several criss-crossing to make a climbing structure. He lowers himself down onto one, leaning his weight back against it. "It was harder, not living above Downing Street. Harder to see them during the week. And Elwen, he had so much energy-you know, when I tried to help, it sometimes made things worse."

Ed is very, very tempted by the obvious jibe but he resists, somehow.

And then Cameron says "I suppose it was more difficult because of Ivan" and Ed stops still for a moment, then turns to look at him slowly, moving back to lean against the wooden beams, and tries not to look as though he's listening hard.

* * *

"Because Elwen was the only other boy" David says, musingly. He's staring up at the children in the climbing frame, carefully positioned so that they can't see him, but he can see them. He knows they love the feeling of being out of sight, some of the few moments of their lives when they're away from the eyes of adults, until they'll feel the pull of wanting to know he's near again.

"And after Florence was born-" His sleeve brushes Ed's. "We knew he was the only other boy we were going to have. Nancy and Florence had two brothers each, but the only brother Elwen had was Ivan. And it's hard for him to remember him, now. He'd only just turned three when Ivan died."

David doesn't look at him but he can feel Ed's gaze on him, intent, watchful. He can feel him listening, the stillness of his posture.

He manages to smile slightly, his tone lighter. "I suppose you're going to say we shouldn't have imposed on our children such horrific gender stereotypes-"

"No" Ed's voice is soft, and David doesn't look at him, but he can feel that Ed's not looking away. "I wasn't going to th-say that at all."

David keeps looking away, his heart beating suddenly faster.

"We went to Tuscany in 2011" he says, his voice deliberately a little quicker now. "That summer with the riots, you remember? When we all had to come home early and leave the kids on holiday?"**

"Yeth." Ed almost interrupts, but not quite. "I remember."

"Well, before Armageddon kicked off here, and I had to miss the second week, we had a week out there in Italy with the kids and Chris and his lot and Sebastian-he's another Old Etonian-" David darts a quick glance at Miliband out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the usual quickfire retort, but Miliband just watches him. Listening.

"And we just-Elwen started chattering to me each day. I don't know if it was playing with the football in the pool and things, but he just started wanting to play, coming for cuddles, that kind of thing. I used to like going for a walk around, and he tagged along after me. He started to, you know, look forward to it." David glances at Ed, finding his dark-eyed gaze now. "It got easier the more time we spent together" he says, more softly, leaving Miliband to work out his own answer from that.

Miliband takes in a short breath, his dark eyes wider than ever, and for a moment, David thinks he's going to say something. But then, he just reaches out and, to David's surprise, takes one of David's hands in his own.

He opens his mouth, but Ed's gaze has already dropped, to David's hand, which he's holding between his own gloved ones. David looks at it too, stupidly, as though it might not be his hand, even as Ed reaches for the other, holding them both in his own. David feels something tremble in his chest, even as Ed's thumb strokes across one of his palms slowly, almost wonderingly. He glances up at David, their eyes meeting. David can count every one of his eyelashes.

"Your hands are cold" Ed says, in a voice that's almost a whisper.

David opens his mouth, but forgets whatever it was he was going to say. Ed lifts his hands slowly, rubbing them back and forth between his own.

David isn't sure how much time passes. He's looking at Ed, watching Ed's gaze roam from his hands to his eyes slowly, feeling the slow, warm strokes of Ed's gloved fingers over his palm, the backs of his hands, the space between his own.

"Ed" is all he says, eventually, his voice soft, and Ed's gaze flickers up to his.

There's a noise from the playground and both of their heads turn towards it, Ed's a second later than David's, and a moment later the three children come skittering down the slide, Florence a few seconds ahead of the boys.

"Daddy!" she says, the children running towards them both, and if it takes David and Ed a few seconds to break apart, their hands joined for a few moments as though it didn't occur to either of them to pull away, neither of them let themselves notice.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Over My Head (Cable Car)-The Fray _ _-"Let's rearrange/I wish you were a stranger; I could disengage/Say that we agree and then never change/But that's disregard/Find another friend and then discard...Everyone knows I'm in over my head"_

 _Dollhouse-Melanie Martinez _ _-"Hey, girl, open the walls, play with your dolls/We'll be a perfect family..Hey, girl, look at my mom, she's got it going on/Ha! You're blinded by her jewellery/When you turn your back/She pulls out a flask/And forgets his infidelity/Uh-oh! She's coming to the attic!/Plastic, plastic, go back to being plastic!/No one ever listens, this wallpaper glistens/Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen/Places, places, get in your places/Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces/Everyone thinks that we're perfect, please don't let them look through the curtains/Picture, picture, smile for the picture/Pose with your brother, won't you be a good sister?/Everyone thinks that we're perfect, please don't let them look through the curtains/D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E/I see things that nobody else sees...Hey, girl open the walls, play with your dolls/We'll be a perfect family"_

 _Cath-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"Cath, she stands, with a well-intentioned man/But she can't relax, with his hand on the small of her back/And as the flashbulbs burst/She holds a smile/Like someone would hold a crying child..Cath, it seems that you live in someone else's dreams/With a hand-me-down wedding dress/Where the things that could have been are suppressed/You said your vows/And you closed the door/On so many men/Who would have loved you more..And soon everybody will ask what became of you/But your heart was dying so fast/You didn't know what to do/The whispers that it won't last roll up and down the pews/But if their hearts were dying that fast/They'd have done the same as you"_

 _It's Nice To Have A Friend-Taylor Swift-" _ _School bell rings, walk me home/Sidewalk chalk covered in snow/Lost my gloves, you give me one/"Wanna hang out?"/Yeah, sounds like fun/Video games, pass me a note/Sleeping in tents, it's nice to have a friend..Light pink sky, up on the roof/Sun sinks down, no curfew/Twenty questions, we tell the truth...It's nice to have a friend"_

 _All Of This-The Naked And Famous _ _-"All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start..As the plans turn into compromise/The promises all turn to lies/The spite builds up and I can't get through/Passive me, aggressive you...I could've made this work but all I had/Was the hope that pieces would take shape/And we could watch them all fall into place/Fall into place, fall into place/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this starts/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start"_

_First Kiss-Kyle Dixon & Michael Stein (Instrumental)_

* * *

_**“You’ve got to come back”** Ed Llewellyn told his boss. **“You’ve got to come back now.”** It was Monday, 8 August 2011, and the Prime Minister was still on holiday in Tuscan-even as riots tore through the cities of England, shops were looted and flames filled the urban skyline. Gangs taunted the police and stocked up on plasma screen TVs and trainers. The social order, it seemed, was on the brink of collapse-all of it televised and tweeted._

_Cameron and Llewellyn shared a distaste for over-reaction and theatricality. Their initial instinct had been that the disturbances were localized outbursts of criminal activity and deserved to be treated as such, rather than dignified as a national emergency. But by Monday the contagion was still spreading, the police were struggling to maintain order-and, as Cameron himself admitted, **“the captain was not on the deck.”** Just as Cameron never actually used the words **“hug a hoodie”** , Jim Callaghan did not say **“Crisis? What crisis?”** in January 1979-but, in both cases, it was the pithy headlines that stuck. On the Sunday morning, as the people of Tottenham sifted through the wreckage of the rioting the night before, Cameron was photographed wearing a polo shirt, tanned and smiling, in a café in Montevarchi, with his arm round a waitress he had forgotten to tip on a previous visit. The juxtaposition of this image with the pictures from Tottenham was political tinder, and invited the snap judgement that the PM was out of touch as well as out of the country. Crisis, what crisis?_

_A special RAF flight was arranged to get Cameron back to his desk by Tuesday morning. Nick Clegg had returned from his holiday in Spain on the Monday. But Theresa May, the Home Secretary, and Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London, were still out of the country. May flew back overnight from Switzerland to join the PM at his first meetings with the Metropolitan Police and for a full gathering of the Civil Contingencies Committee, Cobra. Facing angry calls for his return, Boris also broke off a Winnebago holiday in the Canadian Rockies, racing back to the airport to catch a transatlantic flight. **“It was tough”** he later reflected. **“And then people felt angry because they’d seen their shops, their property, attacked and, sod it, the sodding Mayor had been somewhere else.”** The collective absence of the governing elite for the first three nights of the riots was a perilous low point for the Coalition. For once, the charge that Cameron spent too much time **“chillaxing”-** grotesquely unfair, given his normal working hours-rang dangerously true. Precisely when leadership was most needed it was visibly absent. Inevitably, the vacuum was filled by fear, rumour-mongering and a sense that the anarchy was now viral, and perhaps unstoppable. It was also far from clear what sort of disturbances these were, and whether any social or political message lurked within the frenzied looting and destruction.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_In the stuffy upper floors of Number Ten-airless and quite unlike the grand reception rooms-normal routine was ebbing replaced by coffee-fuelled round-the-clock attention to the rolling news channels, blogs and Twitter. As the PM was quickly informed, the notional trigger was the death of Mark Duggan, a black 29-year-old, in a police shooting in Tottenham on Thursday, 4 August. Duggan’s relatives and other local residents were furious about the manner in which his bereaved family had been treated by the police, and by their refusal to divulge details about the fatal incident. Two days later, 120 demonstrators converged on Tottenham Police Station, arriving at 5.30 p.m. and demanding answers. By 8.30 p.m., the protest had escalated, as the police station came under attack and a squad car was set alight. Officers were pelted with eggs, bottles and bricks, and faced a mob armed with baseball bats and crowbars. A double-decker bus and nearby shops were set ablaze. Police on horseback were called to the scene, and a helicopter loomed over the conflagration. The Acting Commissioner of the Met, Tim Godwin, was reported to be monitoring the situation closely, as well he might: the worst of the disorder had been contained by 11.30 p.m. but looting continued throughout the night, as thieves filled up their car boots and trolleys with stolen goods from stores such as Argos, JD Sports and Boots. May stayed in close touch, asking for up-to-date intelligence, watching and waiting as thousands of young men across the capital witnessed the scenes on television and decided that, the next night, it would be their turn._

_On Sunday evening, what had started as a pretext-Duggan’s death-became an irrelevance. The riots spread across London in Enfield, Edmonton and Brixton, a wave of destruction and looting that pitted armies of hoodies against far too few police officers. Watching in Downing Street, the PM’s advisers realized that the Met was in trouble-and so were they. In less than twenty-four hours, a confrontation over the death of a young father had become a battle for control of the capital’s streets, in which the rioters seemed always to be one step ahead of the authorities. The world watched London in flames and wondered whether the city was, after all, capable of mounting the Olympics in a year’s time. Johnson, the man who was slated to be master of ceremonies at the Games, was thousands of miles away in a Winnebago. “ **He is not going to come back and allow these criminals to set the agenda”** declared Kit Malthouse, Deputy Mayor for Policing. Downing Street briefed reporters mischievously about the Mayor’s absence-though the PM’s aides were increasingly concerned about their own boss’s **“political truancy.”**_

_As a cohort, the politicians looked as if they had been caught on the hop-one of the worst fates that can befall a practitioner of their trade. Though police officers reported that the sky was sometimes dark with bricks and other projectiles, the rioters’ most valuable weapon was the BlackBerry smartphone and, specifically, BlackBerry Messenger (BBM), a service that was not only free, but secure. Developed for business users who sought confidentiality, the BBM network was private to recipients, encrypted and almost impossible to monitor. The call-to-arms on Sunday-resent thousands of times-seems to have been one particular message: “ **Everyone in edmonton enfield Woodgreen everywhere in north link up at enfield town station 4 o’clock sharp!!!...Fuck da feds (police), bring your ballys (balaclavas) and your bags trollys, cars vans, hammers the lot!!”** As Sir Denis O’Connor, Her Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Constabulary, later told MPs, the use of social media was a **“game changer”** for which the police were simply **“not geared”.** Assistant Chief Constable Sharon Rowe of the West Midlands Police expanded in her evidence to the Commons Home Affairs Select Committee: **“I do think there is a challenge for policing nationally….on how we…evaluate that information to turn it into intelligence. We are into a totally new game now and a new world of fast dynamics where we have to put a policing operation in very quick time in place. We have that challenge of being able to evaluate what is true and what is rumour.”** -In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_That challenge was at the heart of the emergency facing the police on Monday, 8 August, as the violence spread to Hackney and Croydon, where the 140-year-old Reeves furniture store was burnt to the ground. There was now disorder in Huddersfield, Reading, Bristol, Leeds, Leicester, Milton Keynes, Birmingham and elsewhere. The rioters kept coming because they believed they could get away with it. There was absolutely no reason to assume that the rioting would peter out. On Tuesday, the Prime Minister chaired the first full Cobra meeting of the crisis. As businesslike as the discussion remained-Cameron’s trademark-the air was thick with tension. In the grey, featureless setting of Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (which gave Cobra its misleadingly exciting name), the PM looked a little too tanned for comfort. There was real concern about the failure of the police thus far to control the situation and barely controlled friction between the politicians and Sir Hugh Orde, president of the Association of Chief Police Officers. In the words of one present: **“Orde clearly felt that we had a cheek coming back from our holidays and telling him how the response had been inadequate.”** In theory, the police had operational control, but, in practice, felt that they were receiving mixed messages from absent politicians. Was this a threat to public order that needed to be contained? Or an outbreak of criminality that had to be stopped? In the words of one Cabinet member present at the Tuesday Cobra meeting: **“The police were bloody angry, it was obvious. Their line was: “You told us to do one thing, now you’re telling us to do another.”** On Saturday and Sunday, 3,000 uniformed officers had been on duty in London. On Monday that number had been doubled-but the violence and looting had continued. It was decided that no fewer than 16,000 police officers would be present on the streets of the capital on Tuesday night, adopting a tougher arrests policy and intervening sooner to disperse crowds. This was effective-in London at least. But the disorder escalated elsewhere on Tuesday night, in Birmingham, Nottingham, Gloucester and Salford. On Wednesday, 10 August, there were disturbances in Manchester city centre, while, in Birmingham, three men were killed on Dudley Road in Winson Green. Tariq Jahan, the father of one of the three dead, made an impromptu statement from his doorstep that captured the mood of a nation weary of the violence and frightened of where it might lead: “ **I lost my son. Blacks, Asians, whites-we all live in the same community. Why do we have to kill one another? Why are we doing this? Step forward if you want to lose your sons. Otherwise, calm down and go home-please.”** Cameron was moved by this intervention, which he felt justified his gut feeling-not shared by all his colleagues-that the riots would bring out the best as well as the worst in people._

_If Mark Duggan’s death was the tragedy that had triggered the riots, Jahan’s moving plea was the bookend that marked their ending. Though the Home Office and the police remained on high alert, and Cobra continued to meet, the disturbances were over, fading away as suddenly as they had arisen. Five people had been killed, 299 police officers injured, about 2,500 shops and businesses looted, and £300m of insurance costs rung up. Courts sat through the night in London, Manchester and the West Midlands to expedite justice and dramatize the restoration of order. Cameron and Johnson, bonded in adversity and shaken by the criticism that they had both waited too long to come back, had a convivial dinner in which they seemed as close as they had ever been.- In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_As the danger of anarchy receded, an angry political inquest began. Social media, exploited by rioters to co-ordinate their actions, were now used to mobilize clean-up operations and **“broom brigades.”** Heckled in Clapham on Tuesday, Boris knew he had ground to make up and was soon out on the streets with a green broom-or at least holding one aloft. Cameron’s aides urged him to do the same, but he declined. **“No”** he told them. **“It’s not prime ministerial.”** In Opposition he had been a willing mannequin, happy to go along with the visual stunts required to achieve a political objective-whether that meant hugging a husky or wearing recycled trainers. But Cameron believed that dignity was essential to the office he held and not something to be frittered away in moments of panic. There were weightier matters to consider, however. Relations with the police remained fraught. On Newsnight, Orde said that “ **the fact that politicians chose to come back is an irrelevance in terms of the tactics that were by then developing.”** The Acting Met Commissioner appeared to back him against the politicians who had been absent for the first three nights of violence. **“I think after any event like this, people will always make comments who weren’t there”** said Godwin. Number Ten let it be known that this was **“stepping over the line”** while continuing to declare total confidence in the police in all official statements. **“Godwin was playing a very dangerous game,”** says one Home Office source, **“because we could have made a lot more of the police fuck-ups. The politicians were taking most of the big hits for being absent. The Met should have recognized that-and shut up.”**_

_The riots had also prompted inevitable questions about police funding-stoked, to Cameron’s fury, by Boris in a Today programme interview. **“If you ask me whether I think there is a case for cutting police budgets in the light of these events”** declared the Mayor, **“then the answer to that would be “No.””** So much for convivial dinners. Cameron insisted that the cuts were necessary and reasonable, and that the priority should be to release more officers from bureaucratic duty. **“I have looked at this, and looked at it again, and looked at it again”** he told the Sunday Telegraph, **“and frankly what we’re asking the police to do (is) to find on average 6 per cent cash cuts over the next four years. Now, there isn’t an organisation in the country that hasn’t had to find those sorts of efficiencies. I sat down with my Chief Constable, who comes to my constituency surgery, who took me through her budget line by line, and she showed me where she was going to find the savings, how they are going to cooperate with other forces, how they are going to do better on procurement, how they are going to get people out from behind their desks, how they are going to cut paperwork, and how they are going to do that without reducing visible policing. I absolutely believe it can be done and it’s no good just immediately saying: “Well, it’s been a difficult week, so let’s tear up police budgets and let’s give up on that part of dealing with the deficit.””** -In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_The more immediate question was how the present occupant of Number Ten would handle the political fall-out of the disturbances. Having recalled the Commons for an an emergency debate on Thursday, 11 August-a week after Duggan’s shooting-Cameron answered questions from 160 MPs in a marathon 165-minute performance. His objective was threefold: to characterize the riots as primarily an outbreak of criminality; to praise the police to the skies, but make clear that their tactical response had been wrong; and to shut down the row over police funding. **“It is simply preposterous”** he told the House, **“for anyone to suggest that people looting in Tottenham at the weekend, still less three days later in Salford, were in any way doing so because of the death of Mark Duggan. Young people stealing flat-screen televisions and burning shops-that was not about politics or protest, it was about theft.”** The officers in the front line had shown remarkable courage, the PM continued, but **“what became increasingly clear earlier this week was that there were simply far too few police deployed on to our streets, and the tactics that they were using were not working….Initially, the police treated the situation too much as a public order issue, rather than essentially one of crime.”** And to those who claimed that the riots made cuts unthinkable, he replied that **“the problem was not about police budgets in four years’ time, but about the availability of the police right now.”** Politically speaking, and through a combination of luck and judgement, Cameron had escaped the flames-just. As it was, more than 60 per cent of voters believed that ministers had **“failed to return to their desks quickly enough.”** If he had stayed in Tuscany a day longer, or if the disorder had continued over a second weekend, his premiership would have been plunged into a serious political crisis. **“Who governs?”** Heath had asked in the first election of 1974-to which the voters’ answer had been: **“Not you, mate.”** Cameron had been spared such a fate. His Government had lost control, its senior members scattered around the world as London burned. But he had returned just in time, asserted himself through Cobra and the Commons, and insisted, as politely as he could, that it was the police rather than the politicians who had been caught napping…_

_His first and most pressing task on returning from Tuscany was to restore order, shore up public confidence and denounce the criminality that had raged through the streets. Yet the context of that criminality perplexed, intrigued and dismayed him. Subsequent studies have suggested that the riots were a strange brew of crude acquisitiveness, opportunistic looting, copycat behaviour, and a pitiful attempt by the hopeless and the marginal to claim some sort of power. Of the retail sites looted in the disturbances, the highest proportion were electrical stores, closely followed by clothes shops. Foot Locker, JD Sports, PC World, Currys and mobile phone shops were all targeted-systematically, in many cases, by thieves seeking to sell on desirable stolen goods. One sixteen-year-old girl from Wandsworth told the Guardian/LSE study of the riots: **“It was literally a festival with no food, no dancing, no music, but a free shopping trip for everyone.”** According to a nineteen-year-old from Tottenham: **“We could have changed the whole everything, the whole government, man, but people wanted Nikes and crap on their feet.”** The biggest spur to the rioters was watching others defy the police with apparent impunity. These were the first viral disturbances to afflict English cities. But there was also a perverse, misguided sense among some of the rioters that they had empowered themselves, that **“we had (the police) under control. We had them under manner for once. They never had us under manners. We had them on lock….They was the criminals today.”** According to one north Londoner in his mid-twenties: “ **When no one cares about you you’re going to eventually make them care, you’re going to cause a disturbance.”** Gangs had been heavily involved in the riots. But they had also, in many areas, declared a truce and set aside deadly postcode rivalries for the duration of the uprising. What, beyond acquisitiveness, had driven them to suspend their grievances and **“beef”** with one another? Cameron had cut his teeth as a Special Adviser to Michael Howard at the Home Office. He had no patience with those who sought to excuse crime as a necessary consequence of economic deprivation or of political disenfranchisement. But he did not believe the argument ended there. This was, he said, **“a huge event in the life of the nation.”** On the Tuesday of the riots, Cameron spoke to David Lammy, MP for Tottenham, to express his sadness at what had happened in his constituency and to reassure him about policing in the days ahead. **“I suspect we’re going to be hearing a lot more about the broken society in the next few days”** said Lammy. **“I suspect you may be right”** the Prime Minister replied._

_In this response, Lammy showed that he understood Cameron well. His preoccupation with the **“broken society”** might strike Boris as **“piffle”** but the PM was as sure as he had ever been that Britain needed a social revolution in2011 as much as it had required economic transformation in 1979. He asked Duncan Smith and May to investigate gang culture and violence with help from American police chiefs. But he was not among those who believed that gangs were the core problem. If anything, their intimidating strength in certain areas was a symptom of much deeper problems connected to the rudiments of human behaviour and interaction.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_The heart of the matter, he told the Sunday Telegraph, was the identity of young men and the need for role models. **“You can see in boys that they yearn-I see it with my son (Elwen, aged five at the time), he yearns for time with his Dad alone, he wants to go for walks. It is extraordinary, this sense that you should do things together, and talk about things, and explain things, and it is brilliant. But, God, it’s testing-no one tells you how to do it. I think we all rely on our friends to tell us “You need to do this differently”, and we watch our friends and how they parent, and we listen a bit to our Mums and Dads. If you haven’t got that network, where do you get it from?”….** The riots nagged at him, offending not only his fundamental view of human nature, but also his ambitions to stitch together the tears in British society. Since 2008, if not before, it had been clear that the principal challenge facing any Government he headed would be the state of the economy: he and Osborne knew that their fate would be settled by their success or failure as economic repairmen. But Cameron was, by inclination, a social reformer rather than a fiscal technician. What animated him was not the control of public expenditure-much as he understood its importance-but the matrix of education, welfare and social cohesion policies that, he believed, could strengthen the social fabric and bequeath to the next generation a country a little more at ease with itself._

_To an extent that has not been fully appreciated, this aspect of Cameron’s political character was deeply influenced by his first experience of fatherhood. Throughout his life, Ivan Cameron suffered from cerebral palsy and severe epilepsy, and died aged six in 2009, a terrible tragedy from which no parent could ever fully recover. His death subjected Cameron and his wife to pain that could scarcely be imagined. Quite naturally, he considered leaving politics altogether after the death of his eldest child. Close friends worried that he was not giving himself time to **“process”** his grief-to which Cameron’s answer, in private and in public, was that such grief can never be fully **“processed.”** It is a constant presence. Yet, in his all-too-brief life, Ivan also undoubtedly transformed his father, planting in him a deeply felt belief that those in power had a duty to help the weaker members of society as well as to foster aspiration and self-reliance. It was impossible to grasp what he meant by **“progressive Conservatism”** without reference to this deeply personal and private narrative. The poster-size photograph of Ivan that hung in the Downing Street flat was symbolic not only of enduring parental love but of a moral commitment.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_Friday 5 August (2011). Craig Oliver is strolling around the corridors in a near empty Number 10. Cameron's team have taken a hard pounding since the New Year on many fronts and have been desperate for a holiday. The usual form is that the team go away at the same time as Cameron himself, leaving just one of them manning the fort. Oliver, the communications director, was the last to join the team, in February. By the time he has his feet under the table, all the other team have booked their holidays. He has drawn the short straw. The day before, eight miles to the north in Tottenham, Mark Duggan, a twenty-nine-year-old man of mixed race who worked at Stansted Airport, was shot dead by police at 6.15 p.m. The news barely registered with Oliver, but on the Saturday morning crowds gather outside Tottenham police station, protesting against the police. The demonstration begins peacefully but erupts into violence. That evening, arson and looting break out across Tottenham. Twenty-six police officers are injured. The Camerons are blissfully unaware. They are relaxing in a villa in the Tuscan province of Arezzo. Ed Llewellyn is in Paris where his wife is shortly to give birth. Kate Fall is deep in the country, while press secretary Gabby Bertin is in New York. Cameron picks up the news but is not remotely eager to break away from Samantha and the children to return to London. It is the right judgement. **"You can't bring the prime minister back from his holiday every time something goes wrong, because you might be seen to be panicking"** said a Number 10 aide. Oliver decides to sound out Cabinet Secretary Gus O'Donnell and the Number 10 permanent secretary, Jeremy Heywood. **"I think this is becoming very serious"** he tells them down the phone. Their response is to go easy on bringing the PM back. **"What will he do?"** is Heywood's response. Officials believe that it is dangerous to be seen to be panicking, which might escalate the violence. Besides, prime ministers need holidays like anybody else._

_Sunday 7 August sees violence spread from Tottenham across London. Photographs appear in the papers of a relaxed Cameron in casual clothes, tanned and smiling, in a cafe in Montevarchi **"with his arm round a waitress he had forgotten to tip on a previous visit."** Placed side by side with images of wrecked buildings in Tottenham, it makes uncomfortable viewing for the prime minister's team. He speaks to the Home Secretary, Theresa May: her opinion is that he need not return. Events take an uglier turn still on Monday night. The capital descends into chaos. Oliver has been watching the scenes of vandalism and looting from shops on the television screens in his office in Number 12. He is mesmerised and shocked by the shots from helicopters of areas of London ablaze. Some of the images are akin to the horrors of the Blitz. Oliver might be the new kid on the block, but he is convinced that the prime minister needs to come back. He phones Heywood and tells him the political requirement is now for the prime minister to come back. In Paris, Llewellyn too is watching the unfolding picture on Sky television with mounting dismay. In the early evening he calls Cameron, imploring him to return that night. **"I'm coming to that conclusion myself"** Cameron tells his chief of staff. The fear is the police may not be able to control the rioters in London, and, galvanised by social media, **"spontaneous"** riots are spreading across several cities. A conference call at 7.30 p.m. with his team confirms his intentions. **"I want to go to every area affected, meet the people affected, and understand for myself exactly what is happening and why"** he tells them. An RAF plane is mobilised to fly to Italy to bring him back. He leaves the villa at midnight, boards the plane at Pisa at 3 a.m. and walks through the door of Downing Street just before 6 a.m. **"It was the right call"** he tells a relieved Oliver. Llewellyn has calculated he can hop back to London on the Eurostar before his first child is born. **"If the PM had delayed his return another twelve or twenty-four hours, it would have been a disaster"** he is later heard to say. From nine o'clock that evening, several fires are burning across the capital. It proves the busiest night for the London fire brigade since the Second World War. Is this conflagration the first event in a complete breakdown of civil society unleashed by Cameron's austerity programme which, one year in, is showing no signs of working?_

_Not for the first time, Cameron understands the near impossible demands on a prime minister. Back too early and he would have been slated for grandstanding. Too late, and he would have ceded control of the agenda to Ed Miliband, who is back from a family holiday in Devon on Monday night and saying he is **"shocked by the scenes we are seeing in parts of London and Birmingham"** , or to Clegg, who is preparing to return from holiday in the West Country. Boris Johnson, himself heavily criticised for his absence, decides to fly back from his family holiday in the Rockies. National disasters raise the stakes for all. As Cameron wrestles with tiredness after his night flight, he hears Theresa May on Radio 4's Today programme saying that the disorder is on a scale **"not seen in this country for many years."** Nothing, he realises, can prepare one for the loneliness of being PM.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_On Tuesday 9 August Cameron has an update with Clegg and May at 8 a.m. and chairs the meeting in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (COBRA) at 9 a.m. The room is crowded with ministers, officials and police. Standing space only is available for the less senior officials. Cameron is disconcerted by the police. Their reaction to the rioting the night before is to claim an operational success, despite the riots spreading to Birmingham with 400 arrests being made due to **"copycat criminal activity."** **"No, no, no!"** says Cameron furiously. **"Your job is to intervene and stop it."** The public mood is one of incomprehension and a feeling that the police are standing by and watching whilst the rioting is taking place and buildings are burning. Cameron says, **"Look, you have one more go to get this right, otherwise we'll do it my way."** In his mind, he is already envisaging curfews and allowing use of water cannons-an anti-riot device that had been used in Northern Ireland, but never on the British mainland. Police numbers in London need to be more than doubled, he says, and they should dramatically increase the number of arrests. (By early Tuesday evening, the total number of arrests would climb to 563, leaving no spare police cells in the capital.) After the meeting is over at 11a.m., Cameron comes outside Number 10 to make a statement: **"These are sickening scenes-scenes of people looting, vandalising, thieving, robbing, scenes of people attacking police officers and even attacking fire crews as they're trying to put out fires. This is criminality, pure and simple, and it has to be confronted and defeated...I have this very clear message to those people who are responsible for this wrongdoing and criminality: you will feel the full force of the law and if you are old enough to commit these crimes you are old enough to face the punishments. And to these people I would say this: you are not only wrecking the lives of others, you're not only wrecking your own communities-you are potentially wrecking your own life too."** The words are substantially Cameron's own, coming from deep inside him. He knows that the nation looks to him for a grip that had been lacking over the previous few days and he is determined to provide it. So serious does Cameron judge the crisis that he announces that Parliament will be recalled that Thursday. _

_Craig Oliver and Liz Sugg have been planning which of the affected areas in London he should visit. Sugg is described as Cameron's **"secret weapon"** , ever resourceful and sans pareil at masterminding his travel. She dispatches him to Croydon in south London, where he visits members of the Reeves family whose 144-year-old furniture store had been burnt down the previous day. He views a corner shop which is still burning. He talks to Kit Malthouse, chair of the Metropolitan Police Authority. Relations with the police are still uneasy after the previous two days: politicians have been blaming the police for handling the riots ineptly, while the police response has been that the politicians are in no position to criticise when they have been on holiday. Cameron and Malthouse agree to work together and that the police will have the political backing to get tough. Having insisted on visiting Tottenham to survey the damage on Monday, despite some resistance in Number 10 that it might be seen as an over-reaction, Clegg then travels to Birmingham the following day. The visit does not go down well. He is booed by crowds on a walkabout in the city centre. **"Go home"** young people in the crowd shout at him. **"Go on-run, run, run"** they shout at his car as it departs. Boris Johnson encounters similar heckling when on Tuesday he visits Clapham Junction, scene of some of the worst rioting. **"I came as fast as I could"** he says, when angry residents ask why he hadn't come home earlier. **"Where were the police?"** they shout at him. **"Tonight, we're going to have huge numbers of police on the streets"** he replies. **"People felt angry because they'd seen their shops, their property attacked and, sod it, the sodding mayor has been somewhere else"** he says later. As the heckling grows louder, he appears disoriented and his usual loquacious charm eludes him. But when someone hands Johnson a green broom, he marches defiantly towards the crowds in the street, saying that he is on the side of innocent Londoners. The mood suddenly turns and the heckling subsides. Cameron's aides urge him to do the same. **"No"** he tells them. **"It's not prime ministerial."** That evening, violence spreads to Merseyside and Manchester.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_A second Cabinet meeting is convened on Wednesday 10 August, following a meeting of COBRA. News is received that three young men have been killed in Birmingham when a speeding car hit them in the early hours of the morning: witnesses say they were only trying to protect local property from being attacked. COBRA debates the impact of the greatly enhanced police presence on the streets of London the night before, with office numbers rising from 6,000 to 16,000. Cameron asks for an early assessment of the increase. The meeting is more measured than the day before, and relations with the police more harmonious. Afterwards, Cameron gives a second statement on the street outside Number 10, promising that the police would have whatever resources are needed to bring the rioting under control, including water cannons. He is keen to point out that the **“more robust approach”** is working. However, water cannons are played down by the Home Secretary and the president of the Association of Chief Police Officers, Sir Hugh Orde, both speaking on Radio 4’s The World At One. **“The police are very clear-they tell me, at the moment, they don’t need water cannons”** May declares on the radio. Later that day, Cameron goes to the West Midlands and meets residents, police and local officials in Birmingham and Wolverhampton. Earlier in the day, Tariq Jahan, the father of one of the three men run over and killed in Birmingham, who just hours before had tried to save his son’s life, made an emotional appeal for calm. **“Why, why?....It makes no sense why people are behaving in this way and taking the lives of three innocent people.”** The impact of his words, more than any other statement uttered by politicians, is immediate. That night, the streets are silent._

_By the morning of Thursday 11 August, order begins to return. No major incidents of violence are recorded. As Oliver emerges from Hammersmith Tube station, he notices a sense of calm, and sees police everywhere: **“The levers had been pulled. The response was very, very strong.”** The House Of Commons convenes for its special recall. At 11.30 a.m., Cameron thanks the House for returning and proceeds to highlight a timeline of events and what is being done to restore order. Directly addressing the victims, he says: **“No one will forget the image of the woman jumping from a burning building, of the furniture shop that had survived the Blitz but has now tragically been burnt to the ground, and everyone will have been impressed by the incredibly brave words of Tariq Jahan, a father in Birmingham whose son was so brutally and tragically run over and killed. Shops, businesses and homes-too many have been vandalised or destroyed and I give the people affected this promise: we will help you repair the damage, get your businesses back up and running and support your communities.”**_

_Later that afternoon, Theresa May addresses the House claiming that “ **the last five days have been a dark time for everybody who cares about their community and their country.”** She argues that the violence seen throughout the country **“raises many searching questions, and the answers may be painful to hear and difficult to put right.”** She announces that courts are being opened up to process cases very quickly and that very tough sentences will be enforced. She announces all police leave will be cancelled. Miliband’s tone changes from condemnation to showing more empathy for the plight of the protesters. **“We all have a duty to ask ourselves why there are people who feel they have nothing to lose and everything to gain from wanton vandalism and looting”** he tells the House, before calling on the government to reconsider spending cuts to police. Cameron’s stark expression of outrage strikes more of a chord in the press than Miliband’s overtly political response._

_By Friday 12 August the riots have petered out completely. In total, over 3,000 people have been arrested and five killed. An exhausted Cameron meets Samantha and the children back from Italy at Gatwick airport before going on to Dean. On Sunday, the Cleggs come to lunch. Cameron now looks for an opportunity to set the riots in context.- Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Towards the end of the first week away I was having to spend more and more time on phone calls, with the problems in the Eurozone and America’s reluctance to deal with its deficit creating a new storm in the markets. The steps by the front door of the house had the best mobile phone reception, and I would spend hours there, nursing a cup of coffee, taking calls from Mervyn King (then Governor Of the Bank Of England), then George, and then Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy….Every morning I would read the media summary that CCHQ’s press office emailed to Conservative MPs, staff and activists. On Friday, 5 August I had seen the story about the shooting of Mark Duggan by police officers in Tottenham. The police said they were attempting to arrest him on suspicion that he had a firearm and was planning an attack, but the facts about what exactly happened weren’t clear. People had begun to protest outside the local police station, and that evening the protests turned into an altercation with police. On the Sunday morning I woke to find that local shops had been trashed and looted, and police officers had been injured. I was appalled, but had faith that the police would contain the situation. Yet that night the chaos-mainly vandalism and looting-spread across the capital. Police made a hundred arrests and charged sixteen people._

_On Monday I left the villa at midnight, having said I wanted a COBR meeting first thing, Parliament recalled that week, and a range of visits planned. I was met by a small jet at Pisa, and spent the journey catching up on documents flown out in a red box. By 4 a.m. I was back in Downing Street and straight to bed. It didn’t take me long in the job to realise that “ **If in doubt, get back”** was the right motto. You are always better overreacting than underreacting to a crisis. This is not just about appearances there is a moment when a situation is worsening and you know your intervention can be decisive. Time and again I would find that there are some things only a prime minister can do. We talk about the Whitehall machine as if the PM just presses a start button. The reality is that when things get rough it is the PM who must pull the levers and turn the cogs him or herself, day after day. Two hours after my head had hit the pillow I was at the kitchen table studying the latest situation reports. The previous night had seen the worst rioting yet. Almost every London borough was affected. Much of the criminality was planned online, via messaging apps and social media._

_There had been the most dreadful scenes. Masked gangs smashing shop windows. People brazenly walking down the street with arms full of TVs and trainers. Children kicking police officers. People jumping from burning windows. Other attacking firefighters as they tried to tackle the blaze. I felt sickened that so many people were capable of such violence and criminality, and amazed that it could spread in this way. I felt embarrassed for Britain, too. Just a few months earlier, new technology had helped young people in the Arab world to fight for democracy-and here young Britons were, using it for theft and destruction. Above all, I felt angry. Angry with the perpetrators and angry that the police hadn’t contained the disturbances. I also felt angry with those trying to make political capital out of the whole thing. Some were saying the events were a response to the killing of Mark Duggan, and poor police and community relations. But I couldn’t see what raiding Debenhams in Clapham Junction had to do with that tragic incident. Others were saying it was about anger with politicians and cuts. But people weren’t attacking Parliament, they were attacking private property. And anyway, the cuts hadn’t kicked in yet._

_It wasn’t about race-this involved people of all backgrounds. And it wasn’t about poverty. People weren’t stealing food. They were stealing designer clothes and boasting about it on their smartphones. Some of the looters were from comfortable, middle-class backgrounds.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_I was equally clear that the shortcomings in the response to the riots had nothing to do with cuts to the police budget. The problem was the numbers deployed on the streets, not the total numbers of police employed. The problem was also the approach they took to the disorder. I asked to see Theresa May and the Acting Met Police commissioner, Tim Godwin, in my office. I was clear. What had happened the night before was unacceptable, and could not happen again. As I left, Tim Godwin said to me, slightly muffled, **“I’m very sorry, Prime Minister, about what’s happened.”** That, for me, was acknowledgement that the police had made a mistake. They didn’t spot quickly enough that what had started as an attack on them had become an attack on private property. The number of officers deployed was too small, and they were slow to switch from dealing with a public order protest, where you protect life and not property, to criminality and looting, where you have to get physical and make arrests._

_We sat around the COBR table: me, Theresa May, Hugh Orde from the Association of Chief Police Officers, the top officials from the Home Office, the Ministry of Justice, the Ministry of Defence, MI5 and GCHQ, and, on speakerphone, the chief constables of Greater Manchester and West Midlands Police, where unrest had also broken out. The first job at these meetings is to try to get the facts straight. I challenged the police on how many officers had been on the streets the night before last, and how many there were going to be that night. There was an awful lot of **“Oh well, Prime Minister, there’ll be forty PSUs (Police Support Units).”** So often in politics, jargon and acronyms prevent non-expert politicians from having a sensible conversation with experts. It frequently drove me mad-and never more so than now. **“Stop talking about bloody PSUs. I want to know how many actual officers will be on the streets.”** I wanted him to be absolutely clear that there would be 16,000-I’d been advised that this was the optimum number for dealing with such civil unrest. I wanted a figure, not jargon, and I wanted him to say it out loud so I could repeat it. That’s the beauty of COBR: you nail people’s feet to the floor._

_The next task at these meetings is to make sure every avenue is being explored. I asked about contingency plans if the violence continued to escalate. Should there be baton rounds (plastic bullets)? Should there be water cannon? In what circumstances should we bring in the army? The police were sniffy about water cannon: **“They’ve never been used on the mainland, Prime Minister. They’re kept in Northern Ireland.”** I said, **“Look, we don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t want to come back to this meeting in two days’ time and find we needed to use water cannon but we didn’t have any contingency plans.”** Hugh Orde said we could have two within twenty-four hours. So I said, **“Thank you, right, done”** and then, again, repeated it in public._

_I went outside the door of No. 10, and, via the media, addressed those responsible for the criminality: **“You are not only wrecking the lives of others, you’re not only wrecking your own communities: you are potentially wrecking your own life too.”** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Then I began what I privately called my “ **riots tour”** , starting in Croydon with the fantastic local Tory MP Gavin Barwell, who had been incredibly active. He’d convened a group of local people, and they all said the same thing: the police weren’t there, they backed off, they didn’t protect our property. Many were left fending off rioters with their bare hands. One of them was eighty-year-old Maurice Reeves, who had watched the furniture business his family had built up over generations, House of Reeves, completely destroyed by fire. It had survived the Blitz, but not this. His ethic of work and duty, family and community, and his deep compassion for those who had suffered even more than him, made him a symbol of the personal cost of the riots._

_That night there weren’t 6,000 police officers on the streets of London, as there had been the night before-there were 16,000. Suddenly the rioting in the capital died down. The following morning it was back to COBR. As well as receiving situation updates, I was driving the justice system to increase the capacity of our courts by introducing emergency night-time sittings. (I’ve always wanted faster justice, and was determined that our courts wouldn’t be found wanting. Historically the British justice system has taken a very dim view of rioting-that such disorder is totally unacceptable-and it certainly demonstrated that tradition in the following weeks.)_

_But where was Boris? He’d rushed all the way back from a camping holiday in a remote part of Canada for this, and now he was fifteen minutes late-and missed the whole bit about London. That evening, the riots were effectively over. On Thursday I would have COBR, cabinet, then questions in the Commons from MPs recalled from their holidays. First, though, I had to deal with Boris._

_He had come out and tried to blame police cuts for the riots. I was furious, and called him straight away. **“Why the hell did you do that?”** He said it was revenge for No. 10 saying this was his **“Hurricane Katrina moment”** , alluding to the fact that he had been away on holiday, and it had taken him several days to return to London. This had not come from my team, but from a Guardian article. He was being paranoid, and frankly at this stage of the proceedings, a massive irritation._

_And he was late again to the next key meeting.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_While the mayor of London was veering all over the place, cabinet was pulling together as one. George Osborne and Theresa May had sought me out separately to check that I wasn’t going to do a U-turn on police cuts. Even the Lib Dems were on board, and Nick Clegg appealed to me not to back down. The speaker let every single MP who wanted to ask me a question do so. I was on my feet for two hours forty-five minutes, answering 160 questions, breaking my own record, set during the phone-hacking questioning three weeks earlier. It was hard work, but it showed that every question was answered, and that I had a grip on the whole thing. My statement was followed by a debate-and while that continued, I popped off to the tea room for a shepherd’s pie and a glass of wine. Then I went back to the flat, switched on the cricket and fell asleep on the sofa. I returned to the Chamber for the wind-up speeches, during which Michael Gove delivered one of the best parliamentary orations I’d ever heard. I marvelled at how he had crafted such beauty from such an ugly episode-praising MPs from across the House, restating our shared British values, and championing those who stood up to the rioters. And that for me is the most powerful image. I don’t just look back at that summer and think of balaclavas and burning buildings. I think of the Londoners armed with brooms who came to clear up their streets. The Sikhs of Southall who didn’t just defend their gurdwara but local mosques too. Of Maurice Reeves, determined to see his store reopen. And the police, fire and ambulance crews who faced danger night after night._

_Charlie Taylor, the government’s school discipline adviser who had previously been head teacher for a school with many very damaged and disturbed children, came round that evening and we talked about what had happened. Yes, it was criminality. And no, the cuts weren’t to blame. But there was a background to the behaviour-in terms of parenting and schooling and values-that we shouldn’t ignore. The following morning Hugh Orde came out and said that the police’s tactics changed because of operational decisions, not the decisions of politicians. While this was irritating, I was clear that we needed to pour oil on troubled waters. Some politicians didn’t agree. David Davis wanted to fight fire with fire-ringing me to say how important it was we won this argument with the police. Instead, Theresa May and I made emollient statements, saying that of course the police made the right decisions, but they had had the political backing of COBR._

_That was the truth of it: the intervention of COBR gave the police the support to do what needed to be done. Whether or not they’d already decided to increase numbers on the streets, we had made damn sure the numbers were going to go right up, and would stay that way.- For The Record, David Cameron_

_That evening I drove down to have dinner with my mother in her cottage in Peasemore. She was all on her own since my dad died, and I stayed the night. There was something very comforting about sitting with Mum and talking about what had happened over the past tumultuous few days. As a magistrate she was full of common sense about dealing with each crime on its own merits, and not overreacting. And, as ever, she was a patient listener, as I sounded off about all the frustrations and difficulties of getting these things right. There was a small singled bed in the spare room upstairs, no wi-fi and not much mobile phone signal. I slept like a baby._

_On Saturday morning I got to Gatwick early to meet Sam and the children, and sat in Costa Coffee with my red box doing some work as I waited. More than usual, people were coming up to me and saying things like **“You’ve got to keep going.”** That was the national mood: bleak, but firm. I had garnered some very practical lessons for a prime minister. I learned that if it’s all kicking off at home, come home. I learned that a comprehensive response to a crisis-chairing COBR, recalling Parliament, making visits, delivering speeches-does work. It stamps your authority on the issue. I learned that a hard-line response is often right: despite Tottenham being intertwined with policing issues, Greater Manchester with organised crime and the Midlands with inter-ethnic tensions, the riots were, by and large, simple criminality._

_And I learned that if a national emergency is being lazily blamed on cuts, you can win the argument that the problem is not financial, it is social.- For The Record, David Cameron_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The filming the Milibands do at home and in the park can be seen here :https://bit.ly/3bFsXux  
> Some of the background dialogue-Daniel saying he doesn't want to touch the swings is at 02:16 and 02:19. Daniel saying Justine's supposed to push him on the swing and "You're not talking to me" is at 02:57 and 03:02. He says "You're not" and "We don't-" at approx 03:00 and "I give up" at 03:26. Daniel asking where they are is at 03:34. Sam saying he doesn't want to is at 05:04, "No" at 04:02 and "You said-" at 04:15. You can hear Zia saying she'll go at 05:40 and Daniel saying he was frightened at 07:14. Sam calls them mean at 07:49. The interview about David M is at 17:30.  
> The photos had been added into the kitchen for filming:https://bit.ly/2UMVJ5g  
> The St James's Park playground David takes Florence to:https://4sq.com/3bCZiCb  
> The cinema where David takes the kids:https://4sq.com/2QS2sK4  
> The second playground where David takes Florence, Daniel and Sam is Wormwood Scrubs playground:https://bit.ly/2JkkNvp  
> Justine preferring skimmed milk:https://bit.ly/3dDgskL  
> https://bit.ly/338jBTn  
> David taking Florence to the cinema that day:https://bit.ly/2xvsBYs  
> David having to give Ivan injections: https://dailym.ai/2QJxBAs  
> https://bit.ly/3bDWAMJ  
> The fallout between Ed and Justine and Louise and David and the effect on Marion:http://dailym.ai/2yijMSh  
> http://dailym.ai/2vWczX6  
> https://dailym.ai/2D95ORR  
> George and Ed B's Andrew Marr appearance and handshake:https://bit.ly/33W00Yh  
> https://bbc.in/2WVDTQn  
> https://dailym.ai/2rhs49z  
> Sam has a peanut allergy: https://bit.ly/2DeTm2N  
> Portobello Market is near to Dave's Kensington home-he was photographed there in 2006:https://bit.ly/2JpufxC  
> You can see the full photos from the shoot here:https://bit.ly/2D6wAKs  
> https://bit.ly/339pUWw  
> Ed M was dating Stephanie, who had also dated Ed B, when he met Justine:https://bit.ly/3asqfrZ  
> https://bit.ly/2Oa8epE  
> https://dailym.ai/2XGa7h6  
> https://dailym.ai/2OBkHll  
> Ed M going away for Christmas in 2010 after David went to the US:https://bit.ly/2xCycft  
> https://bit.ly/3bwU8Yf  
> David banning Ed's friends from his retirement party:http://dailym.ai/2UN56lt  
> Some of the references to Ed and Justine's relationship:https://dailym.ai/35vf2nJ  
> https://dailym.ai/2OI3xTc  
> https://dailym.ai/2OAozCV  
> The videos of Sam on the beach Justine remembers:https://bit.ly/2qtfC6F  
> https://bit.ly/35xqzD3  
> The Tuscan holiday David was on when the riots broke out:http://dailym.ai/2WQUFA9  
> http://dailym.ai/39uDmaG  
> https://bit.ly/2wOkw0S  
> Florence being a smiley baby:https://dailym.ai/2XFCOu  
> The stalking reference Alex makes:https://dailym.ai/37vqH7K  
> The rally Ed attended the previous day:https://bbc.in/2UN5Cjp  
> Tom Bradby attending Sherborne:https://bit.ly/39qkN7B  
> Ed announcing Sam's birth:https://bbc.in/2WQUqFe  
> https://bit.ly/2KN1fRp  
> https://bit.ly/2rhrCrJ  
> https://bit.ly/2qGQMAb  
> The Gordon and Sarah interview mentioned:https://bit.ly/2yjdvFZ  
> Justine's friendship with Quincy:https://bit.ly/3bC7Itc  
> The quotes Justine remembers are from Sarah's article:https://dailym.ai/2OfMwkh  
> The riots David and Ed discuss refer to the 2011 riots:https://bit.ly/3ask07z  
> https://bbc.in/2yi2ggY  
> https://bbc.in/3dCL6Lc


	10. Financial Finagling, Musical Mendaciousness And Symbiotic Spectatorship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which lemons are insufficient to calm George down, throwing spoons is government communication, and Nancy enjoys a PMQs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> Reference quotes for this chapter refer to the relationship between Ed and Nick, David's view of PMQs, David's relationship with his kids, and Nancy's first PMQs experience.  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Nick (Ferrari): **Well, Nancy’s very skilled, because she helped really put you and your former Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg back together after that AV Vote. Mr Clegg is on his way to, I think, see you at Dean, and she’s very excited-**_

_David: **Well-well-**_

_Nick: **T**_ **_o hear that Clegg is on his way!_ **

_David: **Well, that was because-you know-she didn’t think of her dad as famous, because I was her dad, but she’d watched this guy on the-**_

_Nick: **But Nick Clegg was famous?**_

_David: **Yes, of course, she’d watched this guy, Nick Clegg, on the television and thought “Oh my God, it’s so exciting, it’s someone famous-Nick Clegg, is he really coming here?!” so it was quite…**_

[ _ -David Cameron, speaking in 2019 _ ](https://www.globalplayer.com/podcast/42KqUu/)

* * *

_To Nick's Commons office for a discussion with the coalition negotiating team. Nick is clearly very worried about the whole issue of legitimacy-he questions whether people would see it as right for us to hold the balance of power and determine the next government if we are seen to have "lost" the election-i.e., if we have only got twenty-five seats or so. The rest of us said that we could not afford to see things just in this way, as the country would expect us to do our best to form a coalition if no party has a majority. If a Tory-Lib Dem coalition is possible then the key issue would be the EU referendum. Nick said it was such a big risk that if we allowed an EU referendum we would need to take something very big in return-maybe a Lib Dem Chancellor of the Exchequer. I said that this could be our negotiating position but that we could settle for two massive mainstream public service portfolios-such as Health and Education. We then had a lot of discussion about the prospects of winning an EU referendum-and Nick said we needed to commission work on it. I pointed out that the only thing it was going to show was that it was basically a coin toss what the outcome would be._

_Also had a discussion about the Labour Party. Nick confirmed, privately, that he had discussed the EU referendum issue in person with Miliband. Nick said he firmly believed that the only way that Britain would ever vote to stay in the EU was if the Conservative Party were on side in making this argument._

_In the evening was the DPM's end of parliament drinks in Dover House, which I could not attend. But I did get to the House of Commons Chamber for the photograph of all Lib Dem MPs in front of the Speaker's Chair, and another photograph of us all on the government benches with Nick Clegg standing at the Despatch box waving his arms at an imaginary Labour opposition. This was a cheery occasion, and everybody ribbed Simon Hughes, who was as usual fifteen minutes late. I cannot help reflecting on what this photograph of Liberal Democrat MPs is going to look like after the next general election. The sixty or so MPs that we have had over the past couple of parliaments looks like it could be the high-water mark of Lib Dem parliamentary representation, certainly in my political lifetime. Today was an occasion to enjoy and savour-the party has come united through five tough years of coalition government, and it has remained united in spite of very difficult times for the country and the party. We have achieved an amazing number of things in government which I am incredibly proud of-on the economy, on social policy, and on advancing the agenda of personal liberalism and personal freedom. Whatever happens in the forthcoming election, we can be proud of everything we have achieved, and I will always feel grateful to have been a member of this coalition government.-"Tuesday 17th March 2015", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Arriving in Liverpool, Ed knew he had to deliver a passionate and persuasive address. For the Labour leader, this was a deeply ideological moment. He had always viewed David Cameron and George Osborne as hollow men, as Bullingdon boys who saw politics only as a game or a means of amassing power and influence. The conference speech was a once-a-year opportunity for a party leader, especially a Leader Of The Opposition, to set out for the country what he or she believed, a chance to make a clear case for a set of principles and/or policies. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_At the penultimate bilateral meeting between Nick Clegg and David Cameron, the Conservative leader said he thought the election was looking close, and would probably result in a hung parliament. He indicated that the two leaders might soon have to negotiate another coalition. Nick Clegg tried to change the subject and pointed out that he didn’t think the two parties could bridge their differences on Europe. David Cameron reassured him that he believed that the referendum was definitely winnable. -Coalition: 2010-2015: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_David Cameron has finally done what I long ago predicted he would. He (or rather, his spin doctor, Craig Oliver) has thrown his hands in the air and, more in sorrow than anger, you understand, declared that the debate about TV debates has gone on for so long and is still so inconclusive that somebody-and, shucks, it might as well be him-has to **"break the logjam."** So, in a gesture of generosity and goodwill to all, he's prepared to take part in any debate you care to mention-except that it has to be on a date of his choosing and not during the election itself, and it must involve at least six other party leaders._

_Few politicians can be quite as spectacularly disingenuous as David Cameron when he wants to be. His real position, simply stated, is: I think debates are good for democracy. I promised I would take part in them. I even said I thought a head-to-head with Ed Miliband was a good idea, but my advisers have pointed out that I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by taking part, and that calling me chicken may excite the media but it will convince few if any voters to actually change their minds. So I've decided to take some pain now for the undoubted gain of enabling the Tory campaign machine and the Tory press to dictate the agenda, and not the bloody broadcasters._

_Rather unhelpfully, I text Sue, my boss, who is in charge of negotiating the debates for the BBC to say **"Told you so."** The question now, I add, is whether one of the broadcasters will cave in and offer Cameron the debate on the terms he wants..._

_ The real world _

_Well, they're not caving in. Publicly, at least. The broadcasters-Sky, ITV and Channel 4, as well as the Beeb, are officially rejecting Cameron's **"final offer"** and simply repeating their invitation to the three debates they've already dreamed up. From all I hear, the guys in the news divisions are holding firm. I wonder whether their bosses, who will not relish the prospect of a stand-up row with the Prime Minister, will do likewise.-5th-6th March 2015, Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Thirteen. Unlucky for some. The number of times Ed Balls refused yesterday to rule out a deal with the SNP has been counted up, and it was evidently far too many because the other Ed has now announced that, after all, there will be no SNP ministers in any government he leads. This is jolly interesting but completely beside the point. There was never, ever the slightest prospect of a formal coalition between Labour and the Scottish Nationalists. What could be in prospect is the need for a governing arrangement, some kind of deal to secure SNP votes and allow Labour to stay in power._

_The declaration is, though, the clearest possible indication that the ad showing Ed Miliband in Alex Salmond's pocket has been working for the Tories. It is also an illustration of the difference between being leader and being the poor sod who has his interview about the economy ruined by being forced to repeat thirteen times an utterly unsustainable line.-"Monday 9th March 2015" -Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_If I wasn't in my parallel universe I would have been in an edit suite looking at last night's filming chez Miliband. After weeks and weeks of negotiations, the boss (Katy) and I persuaded Team Miliband that they should give us a glimpse through the keyhole. They agreed to let us film at home with Ed and Justine and the kids. My deputy, James Landale, has filled in for me-as he may be doing for some time to come._

_Predictably, Justine is the star of the show. She tells James: " **I think over the next couple of months it's going to get really vicious, really personal, but I'm totally up for this fight."** She comes over as the Justine I've got to know: clever, passionate, likeable. Equally predictably and frustratingly, Ed fails to seize the opportunity. I'm told that his interview lasted a staggering twenty-eight minutes-and still, it seems, lacked a single clear, compelling message._

_What I didn't foresee was how interesting it would be to eye up the Miliband home. Hmmm. Not sure I like that brown sofa, and the kitchen where the two of them are self-consciously sipping mugs of tea looks a bit spartan. Superficial, I know, but..._

_ The real world _

_Hold the front page! Ed Miliband has two kitchens! That's right, two! And he chose to be filmed in the one that looks a bit grotty!_

_This is what passes for news just a few weeks before the country decides whether to make Ed their leader for the next five years. Many people now know more about his tea-making facilities than about what he might actually do in office, and all because of that "at home" feature James Landale did on the news the other night._

_It is a story of our times, one that should be used as an example in future media studies classes. James never mentioned the kitchen. It featured in his piece for just a few seconds and took not much longer than that to film. The shot-of Ed and Justine standing drinking tea together-was arranged at the last minute, I hear, to link one sequence recorded in the house to another. It was given almost no thought by the TV crew or Ed's spin doctors. It did, however, catch the eye and earn the contempt of Sarah Vine, the Daily Mail columnist who happens to be Mrs Michael Gove. Sarah managed to write an entire page about a room **"devoid of colour or character"** except for the **"hideous lime green laundry basket",** comparing the_ _**"mirthless Milibands"** to **"aliens"** with a vision for a Britain **"about as much fun to live in as a communist housing block in Minsk."**_ ****

_This provoked another columnist, who happens to be a friend of Ed's, to rush to defend him. Jenni Russell of The Times writes that **"Ed Miliband's kitchen is lovely. Daily Mail pix: the functional kitchenette by the sitting room for tea and quick snacks."**_

_So he has two kitchens!_

_On the basis of a single face and single image, thousands and thousands of words have been written about the meaning of all this. It has almost none. But it does show why the Tory spin doctors obsess about almost every detail in every shot in every piece they do.-"Tuesday 10th March 2015-Friday 13th March 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_On the evening of Tuesday 17 March, we had the last meeting of the parliamentary party before the general election. Afterwards, Nick hosted a drinks party, and in the early evening Liberal Democrat MPs met in the House of Commons Chamber, after the end of business, for a final photograph of all fifty-six of us. Most Liberal Democrat MPs were there, but we found ourselves waiting, as ever, for Simon Hughes, who had a reputation for always being late (and sometimes even a little long winded.) Norman Baker, our MP for Lewes, had once worked for Simon Hughes as a parliamentary researcher. **"Simon was great"** he said, " **but his time-keeping was terrible. Once, he even turned up twenty-three hours late for a meeting in the Whips' Office-a record." E** veryone, however, was very fond of Simon- **"the Peter Pan of politics"** , as Nick Clegg once affectionately called him-and he received a large cheer when he finally arrived._

_We had one group photograph taken in front of the Speaker's Chair, and another with all of the MPs seated behind Nick Clegg as he stood at the government dispatch box, waving his arm dismissively at an imaginary opposition. It was a cheerful, end-of-term occasion, but as I sat on the green benches I could not help wonder how many of us would be back after the next election-and in my mind I could not remove an image of this same photograph with all of the MPs who lost their seats erased from the picture. It was not a happy thought. -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_On Wednesday 11 March, Nick was due to have lunch with Charles Kennedy at the National Liberal Club, to get some final advice from the former leader before the election campign began. Nick turned up on time, but there was no sign of Charles. **“I had a tomato juice by myself and then I left”** Nick Clegg told his office later. **“I am worried about Charles. He is such a great asset to the party, and is such an astute politician.”** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, 2010-2015, David Laws_

_On Friday 13 March, Nick Clegg attended a service at St Paul's Cathedral to mark the end of the thirteen-year UK engagement in Afghanistan. Both David Cameron and Ed Miliband also attended._

_Ed Miliband wanted to talk about the election debates; Nick Clegg was determined to change the subject. Instead, he asked the Labour leader about his position on the SNP, and expressed surprise that he hadn't already ruled out a deal with them yet. Ed Miliband nodded knowingly, but said little._

_**"I find Miliband difficult to read"** said Nick later. " **Cameron just blurts everything out, and is totally open. There is something very cautious, almost secretive, about Miliband."** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal-Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_**“By the way,”** said Nick, before we parted. “ **There is another person who is being incredibly difficult over this: Miliband. I spoke to him earlier on today. I am worried over how difficult Miliband could be. It feels like he is pretty nervous and indecisive, and he may find his own party pretty split. But I cannot believe he is going to play party politics over this, when Obama is leading and when chemical weapons have been clearly used. If he plays politics, the right-wing press will tear him to pieces and he will be seen to be weak and unfit to be Prime Minister.”…** Nick had only been back from his long holiday for about forty-eight hours, but when he came in, he looked frayed and tired. “ **Sorry to keep you all”** he said. **“I’ve been in meetings with Cameron and Miliband all day. It’s interesting that big, controversial stuff like this always brings Cameron and me together. He’s been very impressive over the last few days. Osborne is, as ever, being rather tactical, and I am afraid Ed Miliband is totally unreliable. I am fast losing respect for him. Every time there is a big decision-Alternative Vote, Lords, Syria-Miliband has the chance to act big, but he always, always acts small. I really think that if there is a hung parliament after the next general election, and there is a possibility of a Lib-Lab coalition, Miliband’s weakness would be a real problem in working together. Cameron and I have tried all day to get Miliband on board but every time we move our position to meet his demands, he just moves further away from us. We made six concessions and after each one he just moved again. We’ve even showed him the Attorney General’s advice, and we’ve agreed on a second vote before military action, and still he won’t agree to the motion we want to put down. So I have come to the view that Miliband is just determined to oppose this. Either he cannot unite his party, or he has one eye on public scepticism in the polls.”**_

_…I listened carefully to Miliband’s deeply unimpressive contribution and came to the same conclusion that Nick Clegg had done over the past few days-that Ed Miliband simply didn’t have the leadership qualities to make a great party leader, let alone a great Prime Minister. Even if he wins this debate, I concluded, he may well be the bigger long-term loser from all this..Meanwhile, Ed Miliband had secured a short-term victory that some shrewd observers thought might turn into a longer-term defeat. His sceptical position had been on the side of public opinion. But what the public saw was not a strong, principled leader standing up for what he believed in, but a man who was not in control of his party, and who had ducked and weaved over a matter literally of life and death. In a devastating commentary in the Times newspaper a few days after the vote, under the headline **“Ed Miliband is no leader. He is a vulture”,** David Aaronovitch wrote:_

**_The Syria vote crystallised his failings….and though you can just about see how in a bad year Ed Miliband could become Prime Minister, what I cannot any longer pretend…is that he would be a good one. I think he would be a disaster. Strangely, I think both the country and his party already know it_ ** _. -Coalition 2010-2015: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_Nick said he’d spoken to Ed Miliband: **“I can’t believe that he’s going to play the left-wing card over Syria, as the press will tear him to pieces. Does he want the blame for chemical weapons being used again by Assad in the future?”** In the evening, I spoke to Matt Sanders, who said that he’d sat in a lot of meetings with Miliband and his team over the whole press regulation issue. Matt said that the striking thing about Ed Miliband was that he didn’t seem to carry a great deal of respect amongst people from his own party, from Harriet Harman down…Nick finally came in and there was quite a contrast with his demeanour from when I last saw him on Tuesday. He was again looking quite frayed. He said he’d been in meetings with Cameron and Miliband all day. He said that he and Cameron are completely aligned but it had been a nightmare dealing with Ed Miliband, who was showing himself to be weak-willed and hopelessly tactical. Every time Miliband had agreed to and secured one particular concession, he would then move the goalposts and start asking for something else. Cameron and Nick have shown him the legal advice from the Attorney General, they’ve agreed to a UN process of approval, even though the Russians will inevitably veto this, they’ve taken his views over the motion that’s going down in the Commons for debate this Thursday, and they’ve now finally agreed that there will be a separate second vote after the original vote on Thursday, so that Parliament can have a view after the UN inspectors have reported back. In spite of this Miliband is still playing hard to get, and having said yesterday that he was committing the Labour Party to supporting the government, he now appears to be trying to weasel out of the whole thing. Nick said he really despaired about Miliband and felt that he came across as a very weak and indecisive leader who is constantly looking over his shoulder at his own party and at the potential for creating political mischief….Ed Miliband then got up and this was clearly his moment. However, he was also deeply unimpressive, and the impression soon clearly dawned on most people that what he was setting out was a tactical position, to unite his party, oppose the government, but not completely come out against action. A total fudge, in other words. I came to the same conclusion as Nick-that Miliband simply doesn’t have the balls to make a great party leader or a great Prime Minister. Even if he wins in the short term, I think he will be the loser in the longer term..Ed Miliband rose. This could have been his moment to be statesmanlike by making clear that we now needed to follow the process as set out in his amendment, and go down the UN route and have the second vote, but without ruling out action. Instead, he made some silly little point about asking for a reassurance that action wouldn’t be taken without a second vote. David Cameron was clearly better prepared for the defeat…Nick texted later: **“It’s dismal. Isolation and grubby opportunism in equal measure.”** Tuesday 27th August-Thursday 29th August 2013", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Spent most of the day locked in the Bedford on the seafront in Brighton working on the speech..We got him up and immediately had an argument about clothes. I was strongly of the view he should wear a shirt and tie, if not a suit. Peter thought he should wear cords and an open-necked shirt and TB and he were continuing this conversation as we were trying to finish the wretched speech. Even if TB had been the one wanting his advice, I felt it was another instance of TB winding Peter up over total trivia. The speech was a priority. His shirt wasn’t. I could feel myself losing it, said he could not just swan in, upset what we were doing, then waltz out again. TB was like a dad trying to shush two squabbling brothers. **“Cut it out, you two, for heaven’s sake.”** Then we moved through to my room and Peter was on the edge and eventually tipped over. He said, **I’m sick of being rubbished and undermined, I hate it and I want out. “Get out then and we can finish the speech.” “That’s what you want, isn’t it, me out of the whole operation.”** I said I just wanted to be able to do a job. He started to leave then came back over, pushed at me, then threw a punch, then another. I grabbed his lapels to disable his arms and TB was by now moving in to separate us and Peter just lunged at him, then looked back at me and shouted: **“I hate this. I’m going back to London.”** He went off and he was still shouting at me from the corridor, saying I was undermining him and Tony and I’m thinking **who the hell might be out there hearing or watching all this.** We sent Anji to go and reason with him. I looked out of the window at the group of photographers waiting for our doorstep, and mused on what they’d just missed. TB clearly felt I’d been too heavy and had provoked him, and perhaps he had a point. He said I had to get along with him. I said **that was a tantrum and it could happen again.** Anji said she felt she had been too hard on him recently. I said **she shouldn’t give an inch.** This thing had to be put on a proper, professional footing in which we all knew what everyone else was doing._

_We did the doorstep, which was fine, then TB saw Peter and said they were going to go for a walk. It was like a classic family explosion, grim and upsetting at the time, but afterwards leaving the air clearer and people getting on better.-"Saturday 4 th February 1995" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_I was alone in my office and wanted to get the official view on such a visit. My door was shut, so I picked up the first thing on my desk, a teaspoon, and threw it at the door, hoping it would summon someone. Luckily, John Casson appeared and said he thought I should go. From then on, it was known as **"the spoon conversation."** **-** For The Record, David Cameron_

_But I was angry with one MP who had misled his colleagues in order to manipulate the vote. Jesse Norman had texted fellow Conservative MPs, saying **“The PM desperately needs the Bill to be knocked off. There is no manifesto commitment now that the programme motion has been withdrawn…”** He said that rebelling **“will help the PM…the government won’t need your vote.”**_

_With these words he had given the impression that I had sanctioned a vote against the Bill. My even temper left me right there, and when I spotted him sauntering through the Lobby I went up to him and said it wasn’t acceptable behaviour or the action of an honourable Member, and that he should send a text round saying that it wasn’t my view. He was deeply apologetic, and did clarify his remarks. But the damage was done. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_This advice (on the Scottish referendum) was reinforced by opinion at home. Our long-standing nanny, Gita, had been with us since shortly after Ivan was born in 2002. Whens he was revising for her citizenship test, she asked me one of the questions: **“What is the purpose of the cabinet in the government of the UK?”** and looked rather surprised when I replied, **“I sometimes wonder.”** The cliché was true: we loved her like a member of the family, and when she left to have a baby with her lovely husband we missed everything from her company to her cooking. We had to advertise for a replacement through an agency without saying where the position was. But we found the perfect person. A young Glaswegian go-getter, Michelle Legowski, came to us after stints working on cruise liners. She seemed unfazed by our unusual circumstances, and slotted straight in. She was also a great sounding-board for the referendum, especially because it was obvious that she was an undecided voter, and so one of the 30 per cent of Scots who would decide the outcome. When she handed over to me in the evening I’d ask her which way she was swaying. For her, as for the friends she’d been discussing the subject with on Facebook, it came down to very practical issues: pensions, pay, taxes, ease of travel. Her voting intention changed from day to day.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_But when you’re on that spot at the despatch box, a primordial need to fight back kicks in. It’s such a high-octane atmosphere that you feel you’re suffering more from attacks than you actually are. The barbs get you. You fight back more than you need to. Blair would do well by soaking up the pressure over several questions and then hitting back with one powerful response, whereas all too frequently I found myself overreacting, or as George put it (usually with approval), **“winning the battle and then jumping into the trench and bayoneting the wounded.”** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_That said, my relationship with Nick did recover. He came to Dean in August (2011), just a few months after the (AV referendum) result. We played tennis, had lunch and talked about how to get the coalition back on the road. It was a big deal after such a rocky patch in our relationship, and even my children were excited about his arrival. I remember Nancy saying **“Dad, is NICK CLEGG really coming here to Dean? Wow!”** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_But to Nancy, Elwen and Florence the garden was a football pitch, a cricket pitch, a playground (we had climbing frames installed) and a place to explore and have fun. I was often rescuing them from trees they had climbed up but couldn’t climb down..Of course, for the children, there was no distinction between what were home areas and what were work areas. It was all theirs. It was one giant labyrinth to explore, and they loved it. They’d climb across the green baize of the Cabinet table and jump onto the chair used by Churchill, only half aware that they were here because Daddy was doing the same job as him. I say half aware, because they were more interested in the fact that there were Fox’s Glacier Mints in little bowls on the table. **“Daddy, your office has sweets!”** I recall Elwen declaring.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Nancy and Elwen had been so engaged in the campaign, and so sweet and supportive to me. I knew they knew I was stressed, because they'd been hugging me more than usual. Nancy had been taking my "Conservative In" campaign badges and giving them to her friends. There had been a contretemps between her and a bigger girl at the school fair, who had asked if she was for **"out"** or for **"in"** , as in Remain. Nancy replied she was for in. The girl said, **"Well, fuck you."** Nancy replied, **"Well, fuck you too."** Sam and I had never heard her say the "f" word before she recounted this story. We thought it was a bit shocking, but rather extraordinary._

_Totally by chance, later on in the morning I gave my speech outside No. 10, Elwen was due to take part in a school project where they would act out the United Nations having a debate on human rights. They'd been rehearsing, with a German girl in his class playing Angela Merkel, an American boy playing Barack Obama, and Elwen playing me. The teachers asked him that morning if he wanted to go ahead, or if it would be too upsetting given what had just happened. **"I want to do it for my dad"** he replied. His performance apparently had the watching parents in tears._

_The whole time, I tried to be the one reassuring people. As members of staff cried, I tried to make jokes. As Samantha wept, I poured her another gin. I got stuck into what was ahead as if it were any other day, and I shed no tears. But when I came to watch a recording of Elwen at the Pretend United Nations, defiantly declaring that he was Prime Minister Cameron, it all started to sink in. The significance of what had happened. The shock and the sadness. The fact that I had failed: failed to win the referendum, failed in my vital task of trying to keep Britain in the EU on a better footing. It had been right to give the people a choice. I was sure about that-and I still am today. I couldn't have given the campaign any more. But my regrets about what had happened went deep. I knew then that they would never leave me. And they never have.- For The Record, David Cameron _

_Back in No. 10, we have a few hours until we have to leave. Liz has planned it all meticulously, as usual. David will make his final statement outside with his family by his side. Then off, to say farewell to the Queen. I have spent so much time helping to coordinate everyone else's exit that I still have a lot to do to sort out my own. Pack my things. Write my thank-you letters, say my goodbyes to friends and colleagues, make a quick visit up to the flat to see Samantha and the children, who are hopping around in their smart outfits...The time rushes by. I find myself in the den with David, Samantha, and Ed. Liz comes to the door. It's time. **"I need Ed and Kate to go ahead"** she says. While we have been talking, No. 10 has silently gathered to say goodbye in the traditional way. Ed and I find ourselves "clapped out" as we are swept along the corridor by our colleagues-a dress rehearsal for the Camerons. It is the most touching, memorable goodbye of my life. I cannot think about it even now without a sense of humble pride and welling emotion. We are directed to the No. 11 door where the rest of our team is waiting. And together we walk out to the street to listen to David's statement. _

_David wishes Theresa well. He wishes success for **"this great country that I love so very much."** He pays a personal tribute to Samantha and the family, and tells the assembled crowd that being Prime Minister has been **"the greatest honour of my life."** He pulls his family round him for a group hug. Nancy's chin is wobbling. Elwen looks determined. Flo relinquishes her hold on the railing in favour of playing to the crowd. Just before he gets in the car he turns to us all and waves. We wave back._

_And that's it. David leaves for the Palace and we leave No. 10. The corridors are empty now. Our former colleagues return to their desks to prepare for a new Prime Minister. This is a place that I have loved like a second home, but it is now no longer our No. 10. Gabby and I find each other. We walk down the stairs, along the corridor, past the cops, out the door. We get into my car-squeezed in between two huge removal trucks-and drive out the back gate of No. 10, into the rest of our lives.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Finally I walked down the long hallway from the back of the building to the front door. I was clapped out, just as I'd been clapped in. Just before we reached the door Liz stopped me, Sam and the children in the hallway, having learned from Thatcher's departure that tipping a PM straight out into the street after they've said goodbye to the staff is a recipe for tears. It was her final act of logistical and emotional genius, and it gave me just the right amount of time to gather myself._

_I stepped into the street and spoke from the lectern. Florence stood coyly with her head poked between her mum and her sister (Nancy). She had been nonchalantly talking about moving **"back to the old house",** even though she'd never actually been there. **"They sometimes like to kick the red boxes full of work"** I said, as I paid tribute to the children. **"Florence, you once climbed into one before a foreign trip and said, "Take me with you.""** I looked at her and she started beaming. **"Well, no more boxes."** Then, my last words in office. **"It has been the greatest honour of my life, to serve our country as prime minister over these last six years and to serve as leader of my party for almost eleven years, and as we leave for the last time, my only wish is continued success for this great country that I love so very much. Thank you."**_

_With that, I turned to my team, who were assembled outside the front of No. 11, and gave them a wave. As they headed to a pub on Trafalgar Square, I'd be at the other end of The Mall, seeing the Queen. After our conversation she invited Sam and the children in. We were worried about them bowing and curtseying properly, but they behaved impeccably. I was so proud of them all that day.- For The Record, David Cameron _

_At 4.40 p.m., Cameron, Samantha and their three children, Nancy, Elwen and Florence, emerged from Number 10 for the last time. Downing Street staff formed a guard of honour in the lobby and Cameron went down the line giving high-fives. Outside, at the lectern, the outgoing prime minister sought to write his own political obituary, ticking off a few of his achievements: the National Living Wage, the new schools and **"the couples who have been able to get married, who weren't allowed to in the past"** ; the social change for which he will perhaps be longest remembered. He thanked his team, his wife- **"the love of my life"** -and his children, recalling how they **"kick the red boxes full of work"** and that Florence **"once climbed into one before a foreign trip and said, "Take me with you.""** With an apologetic look at them, he said: **"Well, no more boxes."**_

_All that remained was the formalities: **"We will shortly be heading to Buckingham Palace to see Her Majesty the Queen, where I will tender my resignation as prime minister and I will advise Her Majesty to invite Theresa May to form a new administration."** At forty-nine years of age and in his prime, after six years and sixty-three days in the hot seat, David Cameron uttered his final public words as prime minister. **"It has been the greatest honour of my life"** he said, voice wavering slightly. **"And as we leave for the last time, my only wish is continued success for this great country that I love so very much. Thank you."** This time there were no tears, just a group family hug._

_Cameron drove to Buckingham Palace. At 5.19 p.m. his premiership officially came to an end with an announcement from the palace that he had tendered his resignation, **"which Her Majesty was graciously pleased to accept."** -All Out War: The Full Story Of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class, Tim Shipman_

_Ed Miliband, who I faced (in the Commons) for the longest time, was quick and annoyingly good at landing the class-themed blows on me that got his side of the House roaring. One day, 18 March 2015, I had my revenge._

_He had recently done an **"at home with the Milibands"-** type TV interview in his modest kitchen. Except that it turned out that this was the smaller of his two kitchens. It was the deception that got people. They don't really care if you have a massive kitchen-but they do care if you try to pretend you don't._

_Eleven-year-old Nancy was coming to watch me at PMQs that day, and I told her at breakfast that morning in the Downing Street flat, **"Darling, I'm going to do something that I don't want you to copy. It won't be pleasant."**_

_I hammered Miliband as **"someone who literally does not know where his next meal is coming from" a** nd then concluded with the inevitable **"If he cannot stand the heat, he'd better get out of his second kitchen."** Nancy was in the gallery punching the air.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_Aled raised his free hand and poked Daniel on the arm, but as he replied, he seemed to be talking almost entirely to himself. "Well, why would we do this if I didn't like you like that."_

_Daniel was quite still. "Well, exactly."_

_"Exactly." -Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_She picked up one of the pamphlets and pretended to nonchalantly peruse it and then slipped it into her purse. I wanted to take one too, though I can't exactly say why. I guess just to see what it said, to see if there were like pictures of the kids who went there, more information about what actually went on, but there was no way that I could just grab it in front of everybody. Not like Coley could. She didn't need to sneak it, because nobody would ever suspect that she might be taking it because she needed to go there, or at least thought that maybe she did. Not the Coley Taylor of Brett & Coley. No way.-The Miseducation Of Cameron Post, Emily M Danforth_

_"Sephy, get off it" I snapped._

_"Get off what? You're a snob, Callum. And I never realized it until today" Sephy snapped back, just as angry. "I thought you were better than that, above all that nonsense. But you're just like anyone else. Crosses and noughts shouldn't be friends. Crosses and noughts shouldn't even live on the same planet together."_

_"That's rubbish!" I fumed. "I don't believe any of that, you know I don't."_

_"Do I?" Sephy tilted her head to one side as she continued to scrutinize me. "Well, if you're not a snob, you're a hypocrite, which is even worse. I'm OK to talk to as long as no-one can see us, as long as no-one knows."_

_"Don't talk to me like that.."_

_"Why? Does the truth hurt?" asked Sephy. "Which one is it, Callum? Are you a snob or a hypocrite?" -Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman_

_We saw each other in the courtyard more and more frequently. We showed off our dolls to each other but without appearing to, one in the other's vicinity, as if each of us were alone. At some point we let the dolls meet, as a test, to see if they got along. And so came the day when we sat next to the cellar window with the curled grating and exchanged our dolls, she holding mine and I hers, and Lila abruptly pushed Tina through the opening in the grating and dropped her._

_I felt an unbearable sorrow. I was attached to my plastic doll; it was the most precious possession I had. I knew that Lila was mean, but I had never expected her to do something so spiteful to me. For me the doll was alive, to know that she was on the floor of the cellar, amid the thousand beasts that lived there, threw me into despair. But that day I learned a skill at which I later excelled. I held back my despair, I held it back on the edge of my wet eyes, so that Lila said to me in dialect: "You don't care about her?"_

_I didn't answer. I felt a violent pain, but I sensed that the pain of quarrelling with her would be even stronger. I was as if strangled by two agonies, one already happening, the loss of the doll, and one possible, the loss of Lila. I said nothing, I only acted without spite, as if it were natural, even if it wasn't natural, and I knew I was taking a great risk. I merely threw into the cellar her Nu, the doll she had just given me._

_Lila looked at me in disbelief._

_"What you do, I do" I recited immediately, aloud.- My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante_

* * *

"I don't know-" George drawls, leaning back in his chair, feet up on the table. "The one thing that comes to my mind is that I want you to make me sardines."*

Lynton aims a pen at his head. George catches it nimbly, giving him a grin over his shoulder.

"It's good" Craig offers, looking more and more relieved by the second, especially at the sight of David in a polo shirt, glasses perched on his nose, hair a mess. "It looks especially good that you didn't use the kids again."

"Or Sam" Lynton chips in. "Use them sparingly."

David glances at him. "I'm not going to use them at all" he says, lightly enough, but perhaps something in his tone warns Lynton not to press the issue.

They're watching a video just posted by the _Sun_ , which Craig has been angling for them to view since he arrived at Downing Street that morning, despite the fact David knows full well he was emailed the edited copy last night for final approval. Last Tuesday, before the Comic Relief reception that night, David had had the dubious pleasure of being followed around by a camera for several portions of the day, on Craig's advice that the more personal they could get it, the better, and now they're watching the result.

"It is good" Liz points out, looking remarkably relieved for someone who'd warned David about five times that morning not to worry about it because the video would be fine. "It's personal, and they can't say you're using anyone."

"And you make good sardines" George points out again, with a grin.

* * *

"He's good" says Ayesha slowly, with the tone and expression of someone for whom this sentiment is an encouragement to suicide. "He's very, very good."

"It's not that good" Spencer volunteers, with the hopeful tone of someone who has not yet learned not to hope. "It's for the _Sun,_ for God's sake."

Ayesha gives him a single quelling look, and he holds up his hands. "OK, it's all right, he comes across-he comes across-"

"Well" says Greg, flatly. "He comes across well."

"How does he do it?" Stewart asks, complainingly-but then Stewart's been in a complaining mood since Bob told him they didn't need a fourth person along on Ed's trip to Leeds.* "How does he bloody manage to-he went to bloody Eton, how does he manage to be so fucking-"

"Relatable."

"He's not relatable." Stewart almost squawks out of his seat, as though he's sat on a pin. "He's not fucking relatable. He's fucking-he's-"

"Relatable" Tom says again, flatly-the other Tom, rather than Baldwin, who'll be, Ayesha calculates, inciting a heart condition in some poor fellow train passenger right about now. "Or-he's someone they'll want to relate to."

Ayesha glances at him. "How do you mean?"

Tom's watching the screen, as Cameron laughs easily to the reporter, his skin almost glowing, looking smoother and softer than ever through this lens. If it weren't for the slight greying in his hair, he'd look far younger than his forty-eight years.

"He's-" Tom shakes his head. "I don't know how to explain it."

"Try" Ayesha says, a little tersely. But they're in the Leader Of The Opposition's office, watching David bloody Cameron charm the cameras and the polls not move. She thinks she's allowed to be terse.

"It's like-" Tom lets his pen fall forward, pointing at the computer screen like a sixth finger. "People look at that and _that's_ what they want to be. Not Cameron or Prime Minister or-but _look_ at him. You know, family kitchen-family-" He drags the video back to a brief shot of the Downing Street garden, toys scattered about the grass, a climbing frame towering over the rest. "He's managed to make himself look like a family man without even showing his kids."

Ayesha blinks, then looks closer at the screen. "Wait-they don't-do they not show up, his kids-"

"No" Spencer says, looking thoroughly put out about this. "At all. Or his wife. Closest you get is him going into the flat at the end and speaking to them. But you don't _see_ them."

Ayesha and Tom exchange glances, danger note humming in the air.

"What?" Spencer asks, following the gaze.

"It's just-" Tom glances between them. "The public can-vary. On politicians' kids. They like them to be relatable, but if they see too much of them-they start feeling a bit-"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. Everyone of them already knows what he means, because they're feeling it themselves, remembering the set-up of cameras and lights and lenses, in the park yesterday, in the kitchen. The sense of unease, rising in the back of the throat, like a pill that won't be swallowed.

They watch the screen silently. Cameron's saying something about PMQs, preparing food with one hand, casually, like he does it every day. "I’ll go to bed probably with my Question Time file-as opposed to with my wife-“

"With both?”

"With _both_ , possibly-“

Out of anyone else's mouth, it would sound arrogant, even misogynistic. They could leap all over it.

But out of Cameron's, it comes out sunnily, with a laugh to the words. Even the slight cocky tilt to his head just seems to touch more charm to it, as though he's daring the camera to tell him off, like a favourite nephew teasing a doting aunt.

"How's he so bloody rosy?" mutters Spencer, rhetorically. He has a point-far from looking as though the campaign's taking it out of him, Cameron's looking almost indecently healthy.

"Make-up?" Ayesha suggests. "Not that he needs it-"

She intends the words to come out sharp, barbed, but they fall flat, and when Spencer says, somewhat sadly, "He doesn't, though", Ayesha has to reflect that they don't sound like an insult at all.

* * *

Ed reminds himself to remove his thumbnail from his mouth, and tells himself he'll only watch the video one more time.

He glances over his phone at Bob, quickly, under his eyelashes, but Bob's inspecting some documents, and Ed seizes the opportunity, headphones wedged firmly into his ears.

He feels a rush of guilty pleasure as he plays the video again, a strange thrill that makes his breath catch, his heart beat faster.

"If you don’t like it, tough"-Cameron glances at the screen, eyebrow arching. "Because it's all that you're getting-"

Something about that tone in Cameron's voice-that commanding, authoritative-almost _bossy_ -tone-

Ed's toes curl pleasantly, and he has to fight not to wriggle in his seat. His cheeks are suddenly far too warm.

He shoots another guilty glance at Bob, pulls his phone closer, as though Rachel might peer at the screen any moment. He cradles it in his lap, cupping his hands over the video, as though he can hide it from himself.

Cameron sucks something off the end of his finger absent-mindedly, and Ed's breath catches. He's tempted to play it again, but he doesn't need to. His mind's grabbed hold of the image and he presses his lips tightly together, his face growing hotter and hotter, his heartbeat getting louder and louder, as he plays those few seconds again and again without needing to touch the button once.

He crosses his legs very, very tightly.

Cameron's cheeks are rosy, soft, even the grey in his hair just seeming to set off the blue of his eyes more. Ed's fingers are knotted very, very tightly in the other sleeve of his shirt, holding himself still. In another shot, Cameron's hair's a mess, glasses balanced on the end of his nose and Ed has to fight a mad urge to reach out and push them up, let his hand linger on his cheek.

It's ridiculous. No one should find things this easy.

No one should be making Ed stare at them like-like-

The sudden rush of heat to his cock makes Ed blush, trying not to let his breath catch. He crosses his legs even tighter, trying to breathe deeply, focus on anything else, anything, focus on how you can clearly see that Cameron's losing some of his hair on top as the camera films him from behind, no matter how much his bloody barber-*

Crimson creeps up Ed's cheeks as he tries not to stare at that one secret spot at the back of Cameron's head where his hairline's receding. Tries not to imagine what it feels like to have your fingers find that place unexpectedly. Caress it.

Tries not to remember.

He tries not to let his eyes drop down any further, and God, fuck, fuck it, fuck hi-

Typical fucking Cameron.

* * *

"I'm not happy, Alastair." The voice curls down the phone line, practically quivering with delightedly repressed outrage. "I'm not _....happy."_

Alastair sighs. "Peter, did the lemon sorbet not come out right again?"

"You wound me."

"If Osborne isn't returning your calls, he's fucking married, Peter."

He can almost picture Peter's pout. "I'll have you know I've never had a call not returned in my life."

Alastair snorts.

"I was referring more to that little disaster regarding the SNP."

Alastair almost thumps the table. "No fucking SNP ministers does not mean no fucking SNP."

"Well, precisely, Alastair. And the electorate are going to see through that more easily than they saw through that dreadful little kitchen of his." Alastair can tell, just from his voice, that Peter's repressing a horrified shudder.

"You need to talk to Tony."

"And why would I need to do that?"

"Because I can't get a fucking answer out of him about whether or not David's coming back for this and-"

"David isn't coming back."

Alastair nearly drops the phone. "He what?"

"David." Peter's voice curls slightly. "Miliband Major has left the building, I'm afraid. He's not coming back, he's seeing the city in the rearview mirror, to quote a popular country song-"

Ten seconds of Googling later, and Alastair has the phone back at his ear. "If you quote one more fucking Taylor Swift song to me, I will break this phone."

"Temper, temper."

"This is a fucking disaster."

"Well, I agree. In fact, I told Tony that exact phrase. Minus the fucking." Alastair can picture the glint in Peter's eye on the last word.

"First, don't ever use that phrase in the same fucking sentence as you and Tony. Second-"

It takes around that time for Alastair's thoughts to catch up with what else Peter just said. "What the fuck do you mean, you told Tony?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" Peter chuckles slightly. Alastair grinds his teeth, knows Peter's enjoying clutching this knowledge close to his chest.

A few seconds of silence seems to disappoint Peter a little, because he says, slowly, "Tony did have a go at persuading him. You know, after he told Ed he wasn't coming back. I mean, I don't know if he told Gordon-"

At this, Alastair nearly chokes. "Gordon-"

"Well, they spoke a few weeks ago but I don't know if they've been in contact since-"

Alastair nearly falls out of his chair.

"Oh dear." Peter's voice practically sings with delight. "Have I killed you?"

"When the fuck did Tony talk to Gordon, Peter?"

"A few weeks ago. About the whole-" He can picture Peter examining his fingernails. "You know. His and Cameron's little escapades together."

Alastair stills. "What?"

"Oh dear, I seem to have opened a door."

"Shut up, Peter." The word _door_ suddenly has Alastair standing in that barn again, Miliband's eyes darting away from his, his voice a little bleating-"What the hell are you talking about, Cameron and Ed's _escapades?"_

There's too long a silence.

"Well, nothing too exciting" Peter says, after a moment, and Alastair barely resists the urge to swing at the wall. "Just-we didn't want dear little Eddie getting distracted, per se, and we thought Gordon might be the best one to deliver the message. And, Tony would rather be the best one to deliver Gordon _that_ message."

Alastair's voice is slow, clenched around each word. "Distracted-how?"

Peter lets out a long sigh. "Alastair, are you sitting down?"

"Peter, I swear-"

"Sit down, Alastair."

Alastair sits down. "There, you happy?"

"Oh, you're not on that dreadful old sofa in your office, are you, I've told you to replace it-"

"Talk, Peter."

* * *

"You didn't talk to Ed on Friday-"

David looks up from his armchair at Nick. Nick's sitting in the other chair, head tilted back, watching him closely through slightly narrowed eyes.

"At the service?" David deliberately holds his gaze a second too long, lets it drop back to his notes. "No, I didn't."

He leaves it at that, deciding not to mention the knot in his chest that hadn't been able to decide whether it was a good or bad thing that Nick was seated in between them-that hadn't been able to nudge past the slightly curt nod Ed had given him at the start of the service as he sat down at the end of the row. The way Ed had walked away at the end without giving David the chance to catch up.

All of that pales, though, when he remembers the touch of Ed's warm, gloved fingers on his own yesterday, the look in his eyes when he'd stroked David's hand slowly between his, something taut, beating between them. Ed's whisper, warm on the air. _Your hands are cold._

He feels the heat creep slowly up his cheeks.

"He kept trying to steer me to talk about the TV debates" Nick says, without commenting on the blush, though David knows better than to think he hasn't noticed. "I tried shoving him into talking about the SNP."

David had noticed. Or at least, he'd noticed Nick talking to Ed.

What had bothered him was that he hadn't liked it.

"He didn't say anything" Nick goes on, while David stares unseeingly at his notes, trying not to remember doing the same thing with his hymn sheet on Friday, trying not to look at Nick leaning into Ed's shoulder next to him, or remember the warmth of Ed's neck under his mouth, while telling himself firmly that there was absolutely nothing unusual in Nick talking to Ed. "But I mean, given the disaster Balls had on Sunday, I thought he might not even have made up his mind."

David drags his thoughts back to the current conversation. "It doesn't matter if he hasn't" he says, remembering the stupid line Miliband had come out with that morning. "He's not entirely ruling out a confidence and supply deal, and the UK doesn't want that. The fact he won't rule it out shows he's considering it."

"Well, obviously" Nick says. "They're his best chance of forming a government, if Labour are the largest party without a majority."

The words hang in the air between them. David's gaze holds Nick's. Nick looks back.

"I assume-" says David slowly, feeling the way. "That he was hoping you'd give him a hint of some sort."

"I'm sure he was" Nick says, with a shrug. "But he'll have to wait." _Like everyone else,_ hovers between them.

David sits back in his armchair. "Do you remember back in the 2010 negotiations?" he says conversationally, pushing his reading glasses further up his nose. "When you tried turning us over by pretending you were going with Labour-"

Nick's mouth twitches very slightly, reluctantly. "We could easily have gone with Labour."

David arches an eyebrow.

"And I said you already knew who you could work with."

Nick spins his pen on the table. "I never said I couldn't work with Ed."

"Yes, you did. After Syria."

Nick's eyes meet his. "I didn't say things couldn't change."

David looks back. "You didn't say they have, either" he tells him, mildly, and this time, Nick is the first to look away.

"You know a full coalition would be difficult" he says, warningly. "I might not be able to promise that."

"I didn't ask for that" David says, peaceably. Nick nods, testing the ground out between them.

"So he's worried about the TV debates" David says next, before Nick can venture anything about concessions. "Good. That means I'm doing the right thing."

Nick, watching him closely, shakes his head. "It always amazes me how cynical you think you are."

David glances up at him. "What do you mean?"

Nick looks back at him. "When we were talking on Friday" he says, just as conversationally as David spoke a minute ago. "I thought it would be far easier talking to you."

David just raises an eyebrow, careful not to let any flicker of triumph show on his face.

"You're more of an open book" Nick says, casually, but not looking away from him. "Miliband-he keeps things quiet. Close to his chest. Something almost secretive about him."

 _Too bloody close to his chest,_ David thinks.

Nick's eyebrows raise slightly. "I'm more comfortable reading you" he says, almost as an afterthought, and then he glances back at the written agenda, leaving David to mull over the ambiguity of that statement.

* * *

"Do you remember when we sent them off to have their first meeting?" George says to Danny, waiting until their advisers have cleared the room for them to sign the final documents, before they'll each go over the Budget plans tonight. "Like putting a monkey and a panda in a room together."

Danny glances up at him over his glasses. "Who, Nick and David?"

George nods, taking the opportunity to study Danny a little more as he peers back at his work. This is the last Budget they'll deliver together, he thinks, not for the first time. And this time, Danny's delivering a different one.

"Are you sure you still want to do this?" he says, carefully casual, waiting until Danny looks up at him to look away.

"What?"

George motions at the papers Danny's marking for similarities and differences. "The Lib Dem Budget."

Danny's jaw tightens very slightly. George eyes him carefully. He knows Danny's closer to the Tories than most Lib Dems. He knows that the press will make mincemeat out of him standing up there with a yellow box.

He knows Danny's almost definitely going to lose his seat.

And for the Lib Dems, it'll be one of their worst scalps of the night.

Danny's gaze meets his behind his glasses, the hazel almost flecked with grey beneath his ginger hair.

"This is our last Budget" Danny says, not looking away from him.

George nods.

Danny takes a slightly deeper breath. "So we need" he says, with an attempt at a smile that's given away by the slight twitch of his jaw. "Something that's just ours.'"

And with that, he looks back at his papers. George watches him for a moment, concern and calculation wrestling with each other in his chest.

_Nothing's just yours', in a coalition._

* * *

"Alastair" Peter says, as the third thump travels down the phone line. "I realise this is a rather fruitless endeavour but do make at least a _vague_ effort to control yourself."

Alastair stops dead, stuffed kitten in his hands, before he snatches the phone back up. "I fucking hope you're joking."

"Alas, not. I have a terrible premonition that I am going to find you on my doorstep with a hastily-packed suitcase when Fiona gets home to find the window broken. What on earth are you throwing?"

"This from the man who fucking stormed out of the fucking Bedford-" Alastair glances down at Grace's old stuffed kitten in his hand and hastily chucks it aside. "Staplers." He glances this time at the array of old stuffed animals-a lion, a Mickey Mouse, a Teletubby-scattering the carpet, having hit various aspects of the room following Alastair deciding his time would be put to better use venting his spleen than listening to Peter sigh and issue teeth-sucking reproofs down the phone.

"I wouldn't be too quick. If one of those rebounds, it's not as though you have a perfect facade to work from."

"I'll take the fucking risk." Alastair chucks an old Tigger at the window.

"Be that as it may, I'd warn you against confronting dear Eddie tonight."

Alastair, who's just thrown the Tigger in another soaring arc across the room, sputters, automatically grabs thin air, and nearly falls over. "What?"

"Well, he's got his finest hour coming up on Wednesday" Peter reminds him, in a sing-song tone that's annoyingly similar to Tony's. "And we don't want him off his game before then."

Alastair opens his mouth, then hesitates. Ed up against Osborne is a different ballgame from Ed up against Cameron.

It's not good. But it's not as bad.

"See?" Peter says, in a tone that would be soothing if it weren't for the self-satisfied smirk Alastair can picture playing around his lips. "You'll have plenty of time to shout yourself into a coma after Eddie's taken the Budget to smithereens."

Alastair huffs disbelievingly.

"Perhaps smithereens was a little strong" Peter concedes delicately. "Maybe-ah-rather large, bite-sized pieces?"

"I'll give you fucking bite-sized in a moment" says Alastair, which doesn't make sense, but seems appropriate.

"Dear, dear" Peter tuts. "So very touchy today."

"Fuck off, Peter."

"I do hope you're being cautious with my Eeyore there." Alastair rolls his eyes at the warning tone. "I seem to recall buying Gracie that for her first birthday."

Alastair immediately glances at the pile of stuffed toys serving as a second carpet and begins scrambling through it.

"What exactly are you doing?"

"Looking for the fucking Eeyore."

Peter clucks his teeth. "Keeping it as a token of our love?"

"No, it's going out the bloody window if I find it. I always fucking hated the thing."

* * *

"This is a joke" Spencer says, leaving Ayesha to wonder if he's referring to the campaign in general.

"What is?"

"The bloody TV debates. Everyone knows that Cameron's just putting it off so the fucking broadcasters will give him exactly what he wants."

"Not exactly hard" Anna mutters, from where she's bent over a document with Greg, outlining the series of planned visits Rachel has sent over for them. "Given they all live in Oliver's pocket."

"That should make Sky and ITV less likely to pander to him" Greg points out. "Tom and Bob have been on the phone with them for days, and they're still bloody deadlocked."

"They're waiting for Cameron to blink" Tim points out, looking irritatingly self-contained. "They think he won't want to push the broadcasters too far."

"No" Greg says, his voice oddly flatter than the others'. "They're counting on Cameron not wanting to look like a coward."

Anna gives him a confused look through her dark curls. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Greg gives Spencer and Ayesha a glance that lasts less than a second. "You'd think" he says darkly, but declines to expand further.

"Anyway" Ayesha says, not wanting to get into the explanations to Anna. "If Ed has a conversation with Cameron about the debates today, that should mean we get closer to an announcement by the end of the week-"

"I'm still not sure about Ed leaning on Cameron for this" Greg points out. "Cameron's not exactly-"

"Cameron courts public opinion" Ayesha argues. "If Ed can get him to think that the public are against this-"

Anna nods eagerly and Spencer looks convinced, but Greg still looks doubtful.

"Anyway" Ayesha says, looking down at the list of lines she's drafted up for Tom to look over when he comes in. "We're running out of time. The debates are the week after next. If it's going to work, it has to be today."

* * *

"Don't you dare concede anything on the debates" Lynton warns David for the fifth time over the phone, as David spins around idly in his chair. "It's bad enough we're wasting time on them at all. You don't concede anything."

"You can relax." David takes the opportunity of a rare moment of freedom to toss a tennis ball in the air and catch it again. "I'm not keen on spending any more time on the blasted things than I already have."

 _"Relax."_ Lynton couldn't make the word sound more scornful if he actively tried, which, David knows all too well, he probably did. "No-one's _relaxing_ , David. No-one's relaxing until we've got you back into Downing Street."

"It was a metaphorical relax. An analogy."

"I don't care if it was a simile dangling from a tree of pathetic fallacy, you don't relax. I don't fucking care if you go into cardiac arrest, as long as you do it after you're back in that bloody office."

"Any other tips for the benefit of my health?" David bounces the ball off his desk, snatches it back up in his hand.

"I'm glad to see you're not spending as much time with Miliband."

David pauses ever so slightly as he holds the ball, debating whether he's being tricked. "Well" he says, deciding his best hope is to feign innocence. "He's got to get used to his free time."

Lynton laughs, but the sound's a second too slow. David knows he's not out of the woods yet.

"Only one more week." As light as Lynton's voice is, it carries a warning tone. "Then you won't see him at all, once you're on the campaign trail."

Something solid swells in David's chest at that.

It's not as if he hasn't thought about it. He and Miliband will be in different places around the country for the next six weeks. The only time they'll see each other-really see each other-will be at TV debates and ceremonies. And what use is that if every one's just going to be a repeat of Friday, with Miliband ignoring him as much as humanly possible?

And what use is any of it if David's actually letting himself care about that, when this is what they agreed from the start?

God, if you'd told David last month when they started this that it would still be going on by the time they got to the break-up of Parliament-

And how has it been a whole month? David wouldn't be overly shocked if you told him nearly two years had gone by.

A whole _month-_

"Yeah" he hears himself say, voice trying to bounce like the ball he's currently rolling back and forth between his fingers. "Looking forward to it."

After Lynton's hung up the phone, David rolls the ball back and forth on the desk a little, pursing his lips. He didn't think he had spent less time with Miliband-maybe just less time that could be noticed. Which makes sense, now he thinks about it. The majority of their most recent private encounters-with the exception of Tania's party and yesterday-have been just that. Private, in one of their homes or an office long after everyone else has left. Most of them have been at night.

Things that there'll be little to no chance for on a campaign trail.

David lets the ball strike the desk a little harder, to bounce the thought away.

Perhaps it's the fact he's telling himself over and over that this is what they agreed to, and so therefore reminding himself very fiercely that he does not, in fact, care about the fact that he and Miliband will very soon be seeing far less of each other, and perhaps it's trying to ignore the niggle of something that feels very like guilt in his chest, that he picks up the ball and throws it at the door.

It's not just for the satisfying thunk of the ball against wood. The door sometimes seems an awfully long way from David's desk and, as he appeals to Liz rather balefully when she reproves him, his voice is his instrument and it must be well-rested.

The ball has no effect, so David searches for something else on his desk to throw, with the vague thought in his mind of getting some Jaffa Cakes in for Miliband.

He can't remember when he started doing that. This might be the last time he does it.

Perhaps to alleviate this particular thought, David seizes a coaster and throws that.

After another moment of staring at the door, he grabs one of three teaspoons on the desk and throws it.

And another.

And another.

And just as the third one leaves David's hand, it opens, a familar voice drifting in, already pitching querulously "What in God'th name is happening to your door- _ow!"_

David's already halfway to his feet, by the time Miliband's hand's over his forehead, his dark eyes attempting to roll up to see the injury, looking all the more aggrieved for it.

"Oh God, sorry-" David's aware the laughter already breaking through into his voice is somewhat undermining his apology, which he tries to compensate for by half-pulling Miliband into the room as he shuts the door behind them, trying to coax his hand away from his forehead. "God, here, let me see-"

"Cameron." Miliband fixes him with a Paddington Bear-like hard stare, his lips pursed petulantly. "Did you jutht throw a _th-spoon_ at me?"

* * *

Ed rubs his head, more irritated than hurt, though he tells himself, perhaps a little vociferously, that he can almost definitely see a red mark forming if he rolls his eyes up and squints.

Cameron grins again, not helping his case for innocence. "I really am sorry" he says, tugging Ed's arm towards one of the sofas-Ed tells himself he only acquiesces because it's practically Cameron's duty to make amends. "It's a habit."

"What, assaulting people with cutlery?" Ed tries not to let his lisp creep into the words, only to hear them stutter into silence as Cameron takes the opportunity of sitting down to cup Ed's cheek with one hand, squinting at his forehead.

"Yeah, we call them spoon conversations."

Ed stares at Cameron, trying to work out if he's being serious or not. Cameron looks back at him innocently.

"Started when Putin was on the phone and we couldn't arrange a timetable" he says, straight-faced.

Ed is saved from responding by Cameron taking another, squinting look at the mark on Ed's head, and then leaning in to stroke at it worriedly. The touch sends a rush of something hot through Ed, something that makes him want to close his eyes.

"I need to talk to you" he says, before he can let himself do so.

Cameron quirks an eyebrow. "Obviously, since you're here. Unless you just can't stay away from me."

Ed feels himself blush furiously, knows that's exactly what Cameron intended, and blushes even more. "Can you be serious for five minutes, perhaps?"

Cameron immediately wipes the smile off his face and presses his lips together, staring at Ed, poker-blank. "Serious."

Ed looks away, mouth twitching treacherously.

"I need to talk to you about the TV debates" he says, when he can trust himself to speak.

"Ah."

"It'th in your interest to agree to them" Ed says, looking back at Cameron now, trying not to feel riled at the half-smile playing at Cameron's mouth. "You're the one who ventured the need for them."

"I agree." Ed tries not to grit his teeth at Cameron's grin. "Which is why I think we should invite all the major parties to take part."

Ed's fingers curl into his palm. "That'th got nothing to do with it. Why won't you agree to a head-to-head?"

"I thought we'd agreed on a seven-way-" Cameron grins very slightly on the words-Ed blushes-"-head-to-head."

"I mean. With. Me." Ed enunciates each word very carefully, determined not to give Cameron any chance to wriggle away from them.

"Well-" Cameron leans back, fingers steepling. "Don't you think you've done enough of that already?"

"Would you jutht be fucking serious for five th-seconds?" The words explode out of Ed like a storm, and he's closer to Cameron now, their knees touching, breathing hard.

"I am." Cameron's voice is calm but Ed can see the heat creeping up his cheeks, the slight narrowing of his eyes. "The public watches us debate every week, Miliband."

"You think half the fucking country watches PMQs?" Ed has to fight with himself not to grab Cameron by his tie. "You know thith would be different."

"Do you think they won't pay enough attention to us in a 7-way debate?" Cameron laughs.

(He manages to fucking _laugh.)_

Ed stares at him, chest rising and falling. "You're a coward" he says, and he sees something glint in Cameron's eyes, something like triumph.

"OK." Cameron raises his hand with a grin, giving a little shrug of his shoulders, leaning back against the sofa. He looks calmer now, the colour from his face receding slightly, and Ed, staring at him, has a thought that he's only vaguely aware of: this is back on his turf.

"You just don't want to debate me" he says, on instinct, pushing at Cameron, silently urging him to push back. "You're a coward and you don't want people to see us because they might not choose you."

"OK. If you say so." Cameron gives him a casual sunny smile.

Ed nearly hits him.

"The public will th-see through it, you know" he says, struggling to keep his voice calm, his gaze locked with Cameron's now, those blue eyes making his fists clench. "They'll know what you're doing."

Cameron's lip curls in a half-smile. "Then I suppose you don't have anything to worry about, do you?"

Ed stares at him, and then his hand fastens in Cameron's sleeve, almost wrenching it. "Don't you fucking _care?"_ The words are half-shouted, but they die to a hiss as Cameron makes no effort to pull away, their foreheads inches apart. "You-you don't even-"

Cameron stares back at him, his gaze flickering to Ed's lips for less than a second, but it makes Ed's heart pound.

"I care" he says, slowly, calmly, but there's a new light in his eyes now, that leaves Ed breathless. For a moment, his hand comes up, finger strokes Ed's cheek for the slightest breath of a touch. "I care about keeping you out of power."

Ed loses his breath, but he shakes his head. "You care about staying in power."

"Yes." Cameron doesn't even try to deny it. "But I care about keeping you out of it too."

Strangely, the words aren't hurtful. Ed shakes his head. "Because you want to-you want to-" He struggles, the simplicity of what Cameron's said oddly vexing. "You-"

"Because you're naive and your plans would wreck the country's economy and I don't trust you not to do a deal with the Scottish National Party" Cameron says, simply, and his finger brushes Ed's cheek again, this time a second longer.

Ed mouths at him silently, unsure which argument to wrestle with first.

"We've just th-said we wouldn't do a deal with the Scottish Nationals" he says, weakly, seizing on the easiest thing to deal with first.

Cameron just arches an eyebrow. "And you expect people to believe that?"

"And you expect people not to?" Ed shoots back. "There's every chance we can win a majority."

Cameron arches both eyebrows.

"Th-stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

Ed becomes aware his fingers are still knotted into Cameron's sleeve. He snatches his hand back immediately, as though it's burnt him.

"Your plans would wreck the economy" Cameron says, as though that's nothing. "You still don't even believe you spent too much last time."

"We didn't-" Ed pulls himself upright, his chin jutting out-this, with Cameron, he knows. "Gordon's actionth helped prevent a worthe crisis-"

He stops because Cameron's laughing. "What?"

"The man who sold the gold-"

"We needed the money!"

"To bail out the banks" and Cameron's no longer laughing now, he's watching Ed with his head on one side, his voice a little harder, his eyes roaming Ed's face avidly. "The man who snatched pensioners' money out from under them."

Ed glares at him. "You're the one who's got a bunch of tax dodgers donating to his party" he hisses, not caring if the words are ill-rehearsed, crashing into each other. "You're the one who bloody slashed benefits-"

"What, the ones you drained the coffers with?"

Ed nearly hits the sofa. " _You-"_

Cameron studies him for a moment, something almost like amusement playing around his mouth, and then he says, "You really can't deal with the idea you could be the bad guys, can you?"

Ed opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

* * *

Miliband's flustered and mouthing helplessly and he's furious, David can see it knotted in his face and his eyes and his mouth, and there's something so beautiful about it all that he aches.

He wants, more than anything right now, to put his arms around Miliband and pull him in for a hug, but he knows Miliband would probably explode.

So he gets up, moves himself out of temptation's way.

"You already knew I wasn't going to budge on the debates" he says, unsure if he's trying to lighten the mood or not. "Did your team send you?"

Miliband's head snaps up, eyes glittering furiously. "You really don't have a clue, do you?" he snaps out. "You-it'th all _fun_ to you, it'th-you don't have a clue what it's like for me, how much I-" His mouth snaps shut but David hears the unspoken words as loudly as if Miliband had screamed them.

_How much I want this._

"I'm glad you think this is all a joke to me" he says, managing to keep his voice light, even as Miliband looks up sharply, his forehead furrowing. "That's good to know."

Miliband opens and closes his mouth furiously for a few moments, before he manages "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." It's an effort to keep his voice light, but David manages it, somehow. He has to manage it, somehow. "Your words do your talking for you."

Miliband rolls his eyes, gaze darting away, then back just as rapidly. "Th-stop trying to turn it around" he almost barks, his voice ragged now. "You're not-you're not the one who-"

David waits.

"You're only doing it to give yourself an advantage-" Miliband's scowling up at him from the sofa, as if this is some kind of revelation. "You're not doing it because you think it's-it's for the _country,_ you're-you're jutht-"

"Your words, not mine."

Miliband looks as if he's been slapped. But David's damned if he's going to give Miliband any type of admission to use against him. For all he knows, Miliband's wired up enough to use him as a kettle.

Then again, that would be a violation of their pact.

And then again, Miliband might decide he doesn't care.

Or not that he doesn't care. But that it's worth it. For the greater good. It's the kind of thing Miliband would try his best to convince himself of.

"I thought you said I saw it as a joke?" he asks, mainly to get his thoughts away from the more dangerous area of their pact, because that reminds him of what their pact's about, which brings forth those thoughts of putting his arms around Miliband now, soothing that angry, hurting look on his face.

"I never th-said that" Miliband mutters again, angrily.

"You didn't have to" David repeats. "Then again, wasn't it you who said that we were all _hollow men_ , who didn't give a damn if the country burned to the ground or not-"

"What?" Miliband's staring up at him, looking stricken.

"It was in that book of Mehdi's. You know, your friend." David shrugs, deliberately casual. "Sorry you think I'm hollow, but it's never seemed to-"

"I don't."

"What?"

Miliband's looking anywhere but at David, a flush of colour creeping slowly up his cheeks.

"I don't think you're hollow." His voice trails away to a mumble and he says the words to his knees, but he says them.

David opens his own mouth and finds himself slightly wrong-footed.

"Then-" He swallows, clears his throat, tries again. "Then why-"

"The public will see through it." It's as if Miliband's previous words were never spoken. He's looking up at David, his lips pressed togther in an attempt at composure, though David can see his dark eyes glittering ominously. "It won't play well for you."

Better than it will if you get in one good line.

"It's Miliband", as Lynton had pointed out. "If he walks out and doesn't defecate on the stage, he'll have outperformed expectations."

George had tilted his head back with a sigh. "What a delightful tour around the visionary corridors of your brain, Lynton."

But Lynton had had a point, as they'd both known.

As Miliband probably knows.

David just lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. "In that case, you should have nothing to worry about, should you?"

An angry flush of colour rises up Miliband's cheeks, and he looks away, teeth digging into his lip furiously. David watches him, letting him wrestle with the words he knows Miliband can't say out loud.

He doesn't, of course, and so, slowly, David deems it safe to take a seat beside him again.

"I never asked you" he says, as though the previous conversation never occurred. "About Patrick."

Ed blinks, chewing his lip. David remembers Nick's words- _hard to tell what he's thinking._

But David thinks he gets glimpses, even fleeting ones, of emotions chasing each other across Miliband's face. Even-perhaps especially-if Miliband doesn't want him to.

"I never th-said anything to Patrick" Miliband manages to sound almost sulky at the admission. "I don't know where he got that idea."

David raises an eyebrow, but something about Miliband's tone is grudgingly honest. Perhaps it's the little scowl at the memory, the way he's drumming his fingers on his knee. Or the shock in his voice when David had rung him up yesterday morning.

"In which case-" He strives to make his own voice a little lighter. "Maybe we need to be a bit more careful."

"More careful?" Miliband seems to try for a laugh, but fails to produce one. "We've only got a week left."

David winces at the unintentional starkness of the words. A week.

A bloody week. Jesus.

"Will you miss me?" he teases, falling back on the first thing he can think of to try and coax a smile out of Miliband.

He doesn't expect the faint attempt at an upturn of Miliband's lips to sink away so fast David blinks, Miliband's eyes to almost harden, staring at him, taking in David's face from forehead to lips, over and over.

"Wh-" David starts, but then suddenly Miliband's hand is on his face and his mouth's on David's, hot and fierce and open and raw, and David's thoughts are splintering, so that for the moment, he doesn't take the opportunity to tease Miliband that for once, it's him who didn't answer the question.

* * *

Ed kisses him without thinking. He kisses him to muffle whatever Cameron was about to ask next and what he asked him a moment ago.

He kisses him because there's only a week to go, there's only a week to go, and how did he not realise that?

Cameron's mouth is warm and soft and Ed's hand is pressing into his cheek. Cameron's cheeks are ridiculously soft-Ed makes an _mmm_ sound in his throat, unable to stop himself, running his hand up and down his face, his thumb stroking under Cameron's eye. Cameron's blue eyes are bright when Ed pulls back, gasping for breath, and then he gives Ed that smirk, raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing, and Ed pulls him back into another fierce, open-mouthed kiss.

His hand fastens into Cameron's hair, a little too hard. He tugs experimentally, and Cameron makes a low, growling sound in his throat. The sound sends something through Ed, a shot of something hot and powerful, and he hears himself growl too, tugging Cameron's hair a little harder, and this time Cameron whimpers.

The sound makes Ed hiss with pleasure, but he forces himself to stop, still holding onto Cameron's hair, his forehead half-pressed against Cameron's. His legs are spread either side of Cameron's knee, he notices vaguely, half-on top of him, but he's whispering for some reason, his words hot against Cameron's cheek, "Are you-is this-"

Cameron's nodding against him, and something about that, the sheer acquiescence of it, makes Ed murmur Cameron's name, the sound becoming a moan. Cameron gives a frantic tug at Ed's shirt and he murmurs "Do it again."

"What-"

"Do-" Cameron's fingers find Ed's wrist and he tugs gently. "My hair-do it-" Cameron's cheeks are wonderfully flushed, beautifully rosy, and Ed fights with the urge to grind his mouth into Cameron's and at the same time, kiss him slowly, sweetly, tenderness and need warring in his chest.

"Please" Cameron says, and Ed loses his breath, his thoughts splintering into pieces around the fact _Cameron fucking said please._

He tugs again, a little harder, taking the plea as permission, and Cameron lets out another, deeper groan, and Ed's mouth's against his neck as he tugs again, Cameron's hand pressing into his back, and he's fucking _on top of Cameron,_ making him groan and wriggle and gasp Ed's name, and Ed's moving on wild instinct, his hips rocking back and forth against Cameron's thigh.

Cameron makes an _mmph_ sound and then pulls his mouth back to Ed's own, moving his knee slightly. Ed thinks at first Cameron's pushing him off, feels something twist in his chest, but then Cameron pulls him closer, and Ed presses into his knee, giving him an aching, delicious pressure, something hard pressing into the side of his thigh.

Ed's losing sense of time, kissing Cameron's cheek, down his jaw, hearing himself make frantic, needing sounds through his teeth, his thoughts spilling into the wonderful, aching pleasure that comes with each rub of his hips, breathing in Cameron's warm, sweet scent. Cameron's making noises into Ed's shoulder that sound exactly how Ed feels, the frantic, low sounds, becoming breathy and needing, the same way Ed heard on the phone, with his hand wrapped around-

_Fuck._

"Cameron-" Ed's voice is strangled, his body shuddering, but he manages to halt his hips, even as his body lets out a frustrated groan. "Cameron-"

"I know, I know-" Cameron's forehead's buried in his shoulder. "I know-"

It takes them a long moment to move back, both of them breathing hard. Cameron's cheeks are flushed, and Ed can hear both of them gasping for breath. They've both moved back but their arms are still fastened around each other, both of them shaking hard.

* * *

"I shan't" Uncle George announces, throwing a pen down onto a sheet of paper. "I shan't, I shan't, I _shan't."_

"Dad, shut up" Liberty mutters, pulling her homework further towards her. "You sound like the sort of video someone leaves on YouTube before they blow their brains out."

"Silence." Uncle George flaps an irritated hand at Liberty, striding over to the ovens behind the wall. "I shan't, I shall not work on that thing another second, another moment, I shall not write another word, I simply _shan't-"_

Dad glances up at him from the yellow sofa. "Budget statement going well, then?"

Nancy raises her eyebrows at him over her homework.

"I shan't, I'm telling you" Uncle George declares, taking a sip from a glass of iced water and stirring fretfully at the two slices of lemon he's very carefully lowered into the drink. "I shan't write another word."

"OK" Dad says peaceably, working on something from his red box. Nancy eyes the boxes, which take up far too much of Dad's time, rather malevolently.

"I'm being incredibly serious" Uncle George announces to the kitchen as a whole. "I'm not working on it anymore. I'm giving up on the whole thing. I resign, as of now."

"Is he resigning again?" asks Liberty, making her way back to the table, with the novel she's using for her book report project-apparently, all the Year 7s-or MIVs, as they're called at Liberty's school-have to give a presentation before the Easter holidays. Most of the class are begrudgingly dragging it out one sentence at a time, but Liberty got so excited, she spent three days just deciding what book to pick, until Auntie Frances dropped the three top choices on her duvet one night and told her to just pick one, it wasn't the bloody Man Booker Prize.

"Yep" Nancy tells her, glancing up at Uncle George's familiar routine. Budget dinners have become a familiar anniversary each March-Autumn Statement dinners too, in November, but then Uncle George doesn't tend to threaten to resign, more walk out of the room and then back in over and over, and mutter menacingly about grey hairs while examining himself in the mirror.

"I am _not_ resigning again." Uncle George brings the glass out in front of him like an arrow to point at Nancy, who stares back, unfazed. "I have not yet resigned _once."_

Auntie Frances' voice peals through from the other sitting-room. "Is he having one of his turns again?"

"I am attempting to formulate a _resignation,_ here-"

"Tell him to have a glass of water and put on one of the bloody interior designs programmes, it calms him down."

"If you'll _excuse me-"_ Uncle George is heading for the living room doorway, over Liberty's giggles from the kitchen table. He's raising his arm to make a point when Lola, enjoying a leisurely wander across the kitchen floor, promptly tangles herself around his feet. "Jesus _Christ-"_

Nancy and Liberty, watching the performance with the air of happy spectators, both dissolve into laughter at the sight of Uncle George nearly spilling his water over Lola, who barks aggrievedly, giving her master the nearest thing to a frown a dog can give.

"This is not funny-" Uncle George points a finger at both of them, at the precise moment that Lola decides the most effective way to cheer her master up would be to climb up his leg.

"Ow-" Uncle George is lifting his leg. "Lola- _no-_ Lola, let _go-"_

"Did he trip over Lola again?"

"No, I did n _ot_ trip over Lola again-" Uncle George is scooping Lola up, while trying to scowl at her. Lola looks back, panting happily.

"Because last time you nearly threw your back out, do you remember-"

"Last time, that dog crept into the room and _deliberately_ waited until the last _possible_ moment to sabotage me!"

"I thought you tripped over her and went backwards over the coffee table" Dad opines quietly, peering over his glasses at the documents in front of him, having managed to avoid looking up for the entire performance.

Uncle George draws himself up to his full height. The effect isn't helped by the fact he's now tucked Lola under his arm, where she's at both Nancy and Liberty's eye-level. Every one of Uncle George's words is accompanied by a visual of Lola's happy, panting face.

"I resign" Uncle George announces to Dad, who goes on scribbling a note on one of the pieces of paper as though this sort of thing happens every day. "I resign-" He lowers the glass to the table, only narrowly avoiding water splashing everywhere-Nancy hastily drags her maths worksheet out of reach. "I resign, effective immediately, I refuse to spend another _moment_ on this Budget-"

Dad drags the red box out of reach of the glass. "George, would you sod off and do the Budget please, I'm trying to read this paper on the Libya fallout and all I can hear is this bizarre caterwauling."

Liberty snorts.

"If it wasn't for the fact you're standing there, I'd have thought Lola must have got another cat."

Uncle George glares at the back of his head. "I'm not writing another word of it" he declaims to the room in general. "I mean it."

Lola's face beams, as much as a dog can beam, out from under his arm. Liberty, through giggles, clicks her teeth at her, cooing. Lola pants happily, wriggling away. Uncle George fastens his arm tighter.

"I am not writing so much as a-Lola, would you stay still, I'm trying to make a point-"

Auntie Frances' voice drifts through once more. "Is he carrying the dog around again-"

"No, I am not carrying the _effing_ dog around again!"

"George!" Dad's admonition is drowned out by Nancy and Liberty both dissolving into laughter, the aforementioned dog wriggling happily in Uncle George's arms, as though solely to contradict this statement.

Uncle George eyes them all ominously. "It's not funny" he warns, not a trace of a smile quivering at his lips. "Not funny at all."

He turns and makes his way slowly, steadily, and with great dignity, towards the kitchen. Lola's tail wiggles furiously with every step. The last sight Nancy and Liberty have of Uncle George before he disappears round the kitchen island is the sight of Lola’s tail, happily and frantically wagging away.

* * *

"I'm still delicate" Uncle George informs them all, almost an hour later, still casting aggrieved looks at his wife, as though trying to fathom such cruelty as being left to derive comfort from a lemon and a dog, of all things. "I could falter at any time."

"Just don't falter over the salad-" Mum steers his hand away from the salad tongs, Uncle George's long, pale fingers grasping fruitlessly at the bowl.

"I could" Uncle George says severely to his own daughter, who hasn't stopped laughing for the past half-hour. Luke, who is now sitting on the other side of the table with the look of one who has heard this speech too many times, had walked into the kitchen half an hour before, taken in the sight of his father marching back and forth, shirt untucked, hair dishevelled, hand gesticulating wildly, the two girls at the table in varying forms of hysterics, David working silently away, as though none of the rest of them existed, and Lola the dog tucked under his father's arm, for all the world like a wooly purse, and had turned around and walked straight back out again.

"This is a deeply fragile moment" Uncle George informs them, dark clouds gathering over his forehead, knotting his brows together. "Anything could knock the formation of this Budget off-balance. We must wait and let it approach carefully-ooh, are those nuggets?"

With that, he promptly seems to forget about budgeting and become remarkably focused on serving himself a large portion of battered chicken.

Perhaps sensing the ominous spluttering behind the girls' hands, it's David who says, "Well, count yourself lucky, I've got Susanna Reid turning up in the garden tomorrow."

Nancy glances at Elwen, who she can tell has had the same thought she did. Dad seems to be following the same line.

"Not to film you" he says, at almost the same time as Mum. "Just for an interview with me."

Nancy nods, mollified.

"I'm still waiting for the count yourself lucky part" Uncle George muses, rather gloomily, surveying his plate with the sad expression of one hoping a miracle wll occur, and fully expecting it not to.

"Oh, would you hoist a smile back on your face. I did an interview with bloody _Heat_ last week, and the only thing that came out of that was remembering we are apparently related to Kim Kardashian."

Nancy and Liberty both look up. Dad shakes his head across the table at them. "It warms my heart that neither of you properly know who that is."

"It warmed mine to see you rehearsing for that bloody Heat interview-" Mum remarks, doling out salad onto her own plate.

"It was filmed!"

"Yeah, the three drags of your hand across your forehead were inspired, Dave-"

"Is PMQs before or after the Budget?" Nancy asks, earning herself a warning look from Dad-Elwen's sitting opposite Luke, currently happily engaged in munching a sweet potato chip.*

"I was just asking" she says, widening her eyes innocently. Bea and Will might not be here-Bea's had to stay after school for some Science Week thing that's going on, and Will had football practice-but Elwen's still there.

"PMQs first" Dad tells her, through a mouthful of rice. "Then the Budget."

"The Budget-" remarks Uncle George, with a baleful glance at Dad, as though he alone was the sole arbitrator of the Budget's length-"-Is a lot longer."

"Only because you make it that way" mutters Auntie Frances.

"How dare you." Uncle George straightens himself up, the effect only slightly spoiled by him wielding a forkful of cucumbers. "I'll have you know every _page_ of that Budget is necessary, every line is accounted for, every word is weighed to the last _syllable-"_

"Are you putting in anything about Mr Ed Miliband's two kitchens?"

Uncle George's eyes widen, then gleam, as he almost claps his hands. "Yes, we managed to get in three just about the mobile phone reception."

"I'll be taking that to bed tonight" Dad mutters, then seems to wince slightly. Nancy, biting into a chicken nugget, only barely notices.

"I never understood why they don't just use the bloody downstairs kitchen" Auntie Frances says, spooning some salad onto her plate. "The place is enormous. Zia could live in just that kitchen."

"Well." Mum and Dad seem to exchange a slight glance, but it's gone before Nancy can catch it. "I suppose they thought they wouldn't need the space."

This time, a glance flickers between all four of the grown-ups around the table, but Nancy doesn't pay as much attention as she usually would, because she's just thought of something.

"He doesn't-" She extends her fork, several grains of rice dropping from the tines, in her enthusiasm for this new thought. "Mr Ed Miliband _actually literally doesn't_ know where his next meal is coming from."

Uncle George stops, fork halfway to his mouth, and stares at her, cheeks still bulging with food.

Then he gets to his feet. "Right, that's brilliant, I'm putting that in-"

"Every word is weighted" Auntie Frances murmurs, making Liberty almost choke on her drink.

 _"Silence_ , a sign of a good Budget is that it can be flexible-" Uncle George holds up a hand, taking his seat again, this time with his notepad and pencil in hand."Now, this is deadly serious, I need everybody to treat this task with the utmost solemnity it deserves-does anyone else have a line about kitchens-"

"If he can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen?" This from Elwen, wide-eyed.

 _"Second_ kitchen" chips in Liberty, half-banging the table. "If he can't stand the heat, he'd best get out of his _second_ kitchen-"

"Genius" George is muttering, scribbling away. "The transition from the verbal to the metaphorical. Poetry in motion. Those nuggets really are rather nice."

* * *

"If we've lost seats-" Nick leans his forehead on his hands, scrutinising David across the table. "Then we're going to have a problem holding the balance of power."

"We lost seats last time" Danny points out. "And still ended up being kingmakers."

"But we were in the 50s then" Nick says.

David sighs."It's not going to be the same if we're-"

He glances at Nick.

"Well-say, half that."

He carefully doesn't look at Nick for a few moments. "But we need to-we'd have a responsibility to help. If we're the ones who hold the balance of power, it's up to us to help tilt it one way or another."

"Well, we're not going with Labour." Nick looks at each of them carefully in turn. "We've pretty much established that."

David feels his shoulders sink in relief. But he taps his pen, making sure to clarify. "Not in any way? No-not an official coalition, but nothing unofficial-no confidence and supply-"

Nick's eyes remain trained on the table for a long moment, before he looks up and, with a deep breath, says "I can't take the party into coalition with Labour because I can't trust Ed Miliband."

There's a short silence. David and Danny exchange glances.

Nick shakes his head, as if they've objected, though neither of them have spoken. "I knew I couldn't work with him after Syria. It was the way, the way he moved the goalposts after he'd given Cameron that agreement-I knew then, I couldn't work with him. I just-" He raises an eyebrow, brings a hand down on the table slowly. "Couldn't trust him."

David breathes out slowly, feeling a certainty settle in his chest.

"So-" he says, looking from David to Danny. "If we go with the Tories-we've got to deal with the EU referendum."

* * *

“So we’ll start outside, have some shots in the garden, with some more casual details, and then we’ll move inside for the second part of the chat.” Susanna gives his arm a squeeze, that David isn’t at all sure is unconscious. “All right?”

Samantha had burst out laughing when Craig had told them who’d be interviewing him.

“She’s always got her hands all over you-“

“She’s always got her hands all over _everyone”_ Ameet had corrected her, earning himself a smack in the arm from Gabby.

“Well.” Craig had tilted his head. “Not her hands. Maybe her words. And her smile. And the way she chews the pen. But aside from that.”

His face had brightened. “But she likes you, everyone knows that. And it’ll be easier than sitting down with another bloke.”

Another bloke might not have squeezed his arm quite like Susanna does.

 _Most other blokes_ , David’s brain adds, treacherously.

Several minutes later, he’s doing his level best not to focus on Miliband, even as he and Susanna walk back and forth, the kids’ climbing frame strategically framed in the background.

“So this is the Downing Street garden-“

“This is the famous Downing Street garden, yeah-“

“And obviously, it’s a playground for your children too.”

“Yeah, as you can see-“ David points out the climbing frame. “We put that in pretty quickly, we had to sort of-get them settled in as quickly as possible-and of course, Florence was born here, she grew up here, so she’s never known anything else-she’s only ever known-Daddy as Prime Minister-“

“And, of course, it must be an incredibly-it’s not a normal house move, they’re-they’re very much in the public eye, there’s constant cameras outside Downing Street-“

“Well, we try not to let them go-we try to make sure they keep a low profile when they’re, you know, going to school and coming home and things-they go-“ He points over their shoulders. “If you can see, with St James’ Park over there, they tend to come in and go out through the back door-“

“Right-“

“So they can-they can sort of avoid the cameras and have a more normal life, insofar as that’s possible.”

“And it must be an incredibly demanding job, and a lot of parents would say that they worry about-you know, not seeing their kids, not spending enough time with their kids, working when they are there-“ Susanna tilts her head to the side. “Do you think-is that something you worry about? Do you have-working parent guilt?”

“Um-“ David becomes aware he’s threading his fingers together-the gesture reminds him uncomfortably of Miliband. “Sometimes-you know, I try, but sometimes, when things are particularly-busy or chaotic-things slip-I take them to school maybe once a fortnight-“

Susanna nods slowly, arms folded in her long, cream coat.

“Sometimes that slips, and I feel sad, I mean, as I-that-that sort of time-taking them into school, chatting with the teacher, finding out how they’re getting on, you know, I love all that.”

“So there is-I mean, it must be quite an effort to balance everything-“ Susanna tucks her long dark hair behind her ears. “With-both you and your wife are working, you’ve got three young kids-“

“Well, it is, particularly as they get older, and they start to-you know-the older ones start to understand more of the job-“

Susanna keeps nodding at him. David catches sight of Craig out of the corner of his gaze, winking, and only just resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“And Florence, because she was born when I was Prime Minister, and is really-you know-a preschool baby, she used to wander around the place like it was all her own-“

Susanna laughs.

“And she knew, you know, at which desk she would get a Polo Mint and who would offer her an apple, and all that sort of thing-she just, she’s at school now, but when she was in nursery, up until this year-for her, this is the home she knows. But look-“

“Do you get to go to parents’ evenings?”

“Not as much as I should, I mean, so I-I-I get to take Elwen to the football, I do quite a lot of things with Nancy-“

He takes a deep breath, briefly wondering if he should launch into this. But then, Craig had suggested it and David obviously hadn’t been able to warn him that it hadn’t been just Florence he’d taken to the cinema. He just has to hope Miliband will see it that way too.

“Actually, at the weekend, really nice, I took-erm-Florence, ‘cos S-S-Sam was with the others, so I took Florence, and we went shopping-and then we went to see _Shaun The Sheep: The Movie-“_

Susanna laughs, as David had known she would.

“Which was brilliant, I thoroughly recommend it-and we had a lovely day together-“

Craig gives him a thumbs-up from behind the camera. David tries not to think of Daniel and Sam.

“I think, when you’ve got three children, spending some time with them individually-I really like doing that, because that’s when-you-you know, they open up more and-“

Susanna’s nodding, encouraging.

“But erm-look-of course there are things you miss-“

Not as much as Miliband, he thinks, uncharitably, then feels guilty for thinking that.

“And I think-school parent evenings-I-I-not as many as I should-“

He remembers Miliband, looking at him in the adventure playground on Sunday night, big eyes darker than ever.

“Homework-not as much as I should-erm-but-er-we try to-you know-try to-“

_You’ve got no idea what it’s like for-_

“Be a reasonable dad” he says, and he turns to look away, hating the niggling feeling in his chest and unsure if he’s feeling guilty for himself or for Miliband or for both of them.

* * *

Lola bounces in her seat excitedly as Nancy climbs in next to her. “I saved it for you-“

Nancy nods with a commiserating grin at May sitting behind them, wondering how she can wangle things so that she can sit with May on the way back. She knows Lola best and May’s quieter, but they’ve gone round in a three half the time for a few years, which sometimes doesn’t serve them well on a two-seater bus, unless they can fight their way to the back seat, which, when three year groups are going, is a tough call, even for Year Sixes.

Outside the window, she can see Elwen’s class, being shepherded onto the Year Four coach, Elwen chatting animatedly with Felix and Kit. He turns and catches a glimpse of his sister watching him through the window. Nancy gives him a nod and turns away, treating him with the appropriate disdain for a sister catching sight of her brother in the school playground. It would be a different story if he needed help, of course. Then, it would only be her right to get involved.

Lola squirms happily, though she interrupts it to make sure to give Felix the same suitably disdainful nod. “We’re missing maths, thank God. If I see another practice SATs test, I’m going to die.”

Nancy nods fervently. Every teacher keeps telling them their SATs don’t matter, and then nearly snapping a pen in half when anyone doesn’t get a Level 4. Still, when Bea was doing SATs, the entire class knew her dad had helped to design them, which didn’t bode well on one particular practice paper, when only two in the whole class had managed to get over halfway marks. (Bea wasn’t one of them.)

Nancy will be doing her SATs the week after the election. She’s trying not to think about where she’ll be living by then. They won’t be able to go back to their old house straight away if Dad doesn’t win.

But even with the absence of SATS, the bus would probably be filled with the same amount of considerable cheering that erupts when they finally move out of the school car park, despite Miss Thompson’s instructions to sit down and be quiet, it’s hardly the first time they’ve been on a bus. In amongst the general palaver, Nancy notices Julianna looking at her over her shoulder, whispering something to the girl next to her. Nancy, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of looking cowed, stares back, chin jutting out defiantly, until Julianna looks away.

Nancy stares for another moment, before she turns back to Lola and May, both of whom have followed her gaze. “What’s up with her?” May asks, tilting her head in direction. Nancy shrugs. She’s never had any particular trouble with Julianna before, though she’s never known her that well either. She has a vague memory that their dads might have argued years ago, at one of the school summer fairs, but that was when they were tiny, and Dad’s never mentioned her, and Julianna changed schools a few years back, when Mummy said they were pretending to be Catholics to get into a good school. She only came back last year, and her dad doesn’t live with them anymore. The word _prison_ echoes around her in whispers, though Mum always tells Nancy it’s none of her business whenever she asks.

“Don’t know” she says, settling in for the rigours of a fifteen-minute journey to the Royal Albert Hall. She watches May bounce in her seat happily, clapping her hands together.

Lola’s trying to affect a slightly more grown-up air, but even she’s grinning, wriggling slightly in her seat. “I can’t wait.”

Nancy frowns. “Do you know what we’re going to see?”

Lola shakes her head, happily dismissive. “No idea.”

* * *

"The fact is-" Nick sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Look, I spoke to Miliband about this on Friday-"

"At the-"

"Yeah, at the Commemoration Service, and-obviously, he's completely opposed to a referendum, but that's just not enough, ultimately, for me to go over to him." Nick sighs, shrugging one shoulder. "To be honest, I don't even-I don't even know if he would stick to the pledge not to hold one if it was politically beneficial for him, and that's-I can't work with him if I don't have at least some trust in him, and that's not-I can't see that working."

"So that leaves us with the Tories."

"Yeah."

"And they're-we're-" David throws the pen down on the table, then picks it up again. "We've got a situation where Cameron's planning to go to Brussels, renegotiate a deal, and then might say he wants to Leave anyway."

Nick sighs. "I don't know-" he says slowly. "I don't know if I would take us into a coalition with the Conservatives again."

David stills, pen against his chin.

Nick takes a long breath. "I think I could countenance-I could personally countenance a confidence and supply agreement or an informal arrangement. But I don't know if the party could."

"OK-"

"And that's if we don't try to block the referendum."

"If we block the referendum, Cameron's backbenchers will bring him down" Danny says flatly. "The government will collapse and we could be facing another election by Christmas."

David nods slowly. "And we'd probably do much worse."

Nick nods slowly. "If we support Cameron-in getting a Referendum Bill through the Commons-I think we're going to have to ask for a pretty big scalp in return."

"What are you thinking?"

Nick sucks his teeth slowly. "I was thinking a Lib Dem Chancellor Of The Exchequer."

Both David and Danny freeze. David feels Danny's gaze dart to him, and resists the urge to kick his ankle under the table.

"Or something on that scale." Nick glances between them. "What?"

David looks at Danny, trying to widen his eyes meaningfully. Danny gives him a brief indignant look, and then says, "It's just-we were thinking it would probably be something-we thought maybe Home Secretary. Or Foreign Secretary."

Nick takes in a long breath, dragging his hand through his hair. "One of the big departments, we'd need to get-it's just-Chancellor would mean more of a-it would look more equal."

David glances at Danny. "The thing is" he says, slowly. "George is an arch-Remainer."

"Mm" Nick concurs, tilting his head. "Well, he's against even holding a referendum. He was against putting it in the manifesto."

"So if one's held in the next two-one, two years-" David looks at Danny, seeing understanding dawn on his face. "George will almost certainly go out for Remain-"

"And then we're more likely to see Cameron-do the same" Danny says, finishing the thought.

"Because he won't want-"

"It would be a huge-"

"A huge split-yeah, exactly, exactly-" Nick leans back in his chair, digging his teeth into his lip. "So-we could-" He sighs. "I don't think we would win a referendum without Cameron arguing for Remain" he says slowly. "That's the blunt truth of it, I think the arguments haven't been made properly or over a long enough period of time, and-if it takes Osborne staying in place to make him more likely to back Remain-then that's probably what will have to happen."

David tries not to let the relief show on his face too obviously. He can sense Danny doing the same.

"That does mean-" Nick's got his hands wrapped together in front of his face now, half-pressed against his mouth, almost as though he's praying. "We've also got to consider-my position-"

He meets David's eyes over his interlocked fingers. David fights the urge to look away, holding his gaze.

"My position after this election-" Nick takes a deep breath, pushing his reading-glasses further back up his nose with a suddenly businesslike air. "And how long I'll go on."

* * *

“So are the kids-you said Florence was, she’s been born and brought up here, but how about your older children?”

They’re sitting across from each other in the living room Craig had picked out for the interview. It’s one of the ones in the Downing Street flat, with the armchairs dragged round. David’s slightly grateful for the fact that they’ve gone straight into the second interview-it gives him less time to dwell on the weird nagging sensation that he’d only mentioned Florence, which is downright bizarre. It’s not as though he could have mentioned Daniel and Sam. They’re not even his children.

“Well, they were-Nancy and Elwen were, they were only six and four when we moved in, and so they were quite little. But as I said, they-we try to keep their family life as separate as possible from the rest of the building, we redecorated the whole of the flat when we moved in-“

“Yeah, I remember the-all the price reports-“

“We try to make sure-whenever I’m at home, we always have meals together, with the kids-we-it’s got a kitchen at the heart of it, it’s where the children do their homework, we have breakfast-Sam has done a brilliant job making it as different as possible to the rest of the building.”

“So for Florence, it’s just her home, but your older children required some more adjusting-“

“Yes, it’s been a bit-I mean, I think they did take a little time to adjust, but overall they seem to have adapted very well-the others, they know where my office is and they know their way around the building, but they-they live a relatively normal life.”

“What do your children think about what you do?”

“Well, Nancy’s now eleven and Elwen’s nine-they are-beginning to understand what being Prime Minister is all about-“

He feels slightly cheered, remembering his promise to Nancy about PMQs the next day, and the odd, nagging feeling abates slightly.

“And-so I hope they’re sort of proud their Daddy does an-important job-they’ve realised that there’s a general election coming up-and-they’re now very keen that the blue team win.”

Susanna laughs.

“You know-they know Daddy’s in a-a tough fight-and-um-so-er-“

He doesn’t bother to check too much with Craig when he’s talking about the children-but then he doesn’t really need to rehearse talking about them. After so many years in front of the cameras, he doesn’t really need to remind himself to relax now, but thinking about the children at least makes him feel more at home.

“They’re-they’re-they’re getting behind me, which is-which is good to know-but we’ve tried-“ He leans back a little. “You can’t insulate your children from what you do, but we’ve just tried to create-you know-a warm home and a way that isn’t coming in through the Number 10 front door.”

Susanna tilts her head very slightly to the side, her finger circling a little in the air. “Do you think that they get teased because of what you do?”

David sucks his teeth slowly.

“We are going to have to think about what we’ll do when Nance starts at Grey Coat” Sam had told him, in bed on Sunday night. “The other kids’ll be taking the bus or the train.”

David had lowered his notes. “I suppose we’ll have to-I mean, we’ll have to take it through the security team.”

Sam had frowned. “Bea’s been OK taking the train, hasn’t she? It’s just-it might make Nancy feel different.”

Susanna’s looking at him.

“A little bit-“ David says, slowly. “But it seems to have been-“

He prays he’s not jinxing anything.

“Been OK.”

* * *

Spilling out of the Albert Hall a couple of hours later-the show, though none of them are entirely sure what it was called, was sufficiently diverting for none of the children to have regretted going, and certainly in comparison to what would have been a maths lesson-Nancy is chewing Minstrels rather contentedly, when Elwen’s arm bumps into hers’.

Nancy looks round with a frown-in deference to the unspoken code between siblings, she and Elwen generally treat each other with a polite amount of distance at school. “What?”

Elwen’s frowning, uncharacteristically, looking somewhere ahead of them. “Julianna’s in your class, right?”

Nancy frowns, something stirring the hairs on the back of her neck without her quite knowing it, her body suddenly alert for an attack. “Yeah…”

Elwen indicates her with his head. “Did you hear what she was saying about Dad?”

Nancy turns to watch her-Lola’s slowed down, keeping pace. Only now does Nancy realise Will is following a few steps behind them, from his wary expression already kept up to speed by Elwen. Felix is at Elwen’s side.

“No.” Nancy’s eyes narrow slightly as they fix on Julianna’s back. “What did she say?”

Elwen shrugs, Will looking uncomfortable, much as Nancy and Elwen might have felt themselves in previous years when it was Bea marching over to consult someone who’d insulted their father. “Don’t know. She was just saying her dad says he doesn’t like Dad or something. Or her dad thinks Dad’s wrong or hopes Dad loses, or something-or that Dad-“

“Elwen, stop saying Dad.”

“OK. She said that Dad-“

Lola rolls her eyes. Nancy is glancing at Julianna. “Who to?”

Elwen shrugs. “Someone in your class-I don’t know them, do I? I only heard her because I was behind her at the sweet bar in the interval-“

Nancy focuses her gaze on Julianna, Elwen’s voice fading to background noise. She stares at the other girl, hard, as though her gaze could burn through her sweatshirt.

Nancy isn’t entirely aware, as she marches over to Julianna, her back straight and her chin tilted up defiantly, of what she’s half-remembering; a story she’d overheard her father telling her mother, one of his MPs who’d sent a text message round with an instruction said to come from the Prime Minister that didn’t, of how he’d marched over to that MP in the lobby when he’d seen him chatting away, asked him what he thought he’d been playing at. Nancy had been younger at the time, and more interested in the lemonade she was trying to make, and the story had only half-stuck in her mind. But as she marches over to Julianna, she’s remembering it, even without entirely noticing.

She catches up to Julianna and the few others around her just as they reach the doors, the rest of the classes spilling out around them down the short flights of steps. Nancy, however, stops at the top, reaching out and fastening her hand onto Julianna’s shoulder so that she does too.

Julianna jumps slightly, turning round to frown at Nancy. Nancy stares straight back at her, standing still in the middle of the top step so that others are forced to either move around her, like water around a particularly stubborn stone, or come to a halt, either in the doorway or around the two of them, to watch the encounter.

“What have you been saying about our dad?” Nancy stares straight at Julianna, her chin tilted up. She’s grown a little recently, so Julianna, who’d previously been around the same height as her, is now a centimetre or so smaller.

Julianna blinks, eyes shifting away doubtfully, taking in Elwen at Nancy’s side, Lola’s arms folded defiantly across her chest, and Will, eyeing Nancy worriedly, as though wondering if he might have to pull her back. “Nothing.”

Lola snorts. Nancy elbows her, wanting to carry the conversation herself.

“Then why’s everyone else saying you have been?” Everyone else is a slight stretch, considering it consists of Elwen and Lola, but Nancy, even at the age of eleven, is not opposed to giving her arguments a rhetorical flourish.

Julianna folds her arms now, trying to jut her own chin out, as though deciding a form of attack of her own will be the best defence. “I didn’t say anything. I was just saying what my dad said.”

“If you were saying something, what did you say?”

Julianna glances around, possibly looking for a teacher. Nancy knows she’s got limited time before one of them comes to investigate why the flood of pupils isn’t moving down to the pavement as swiftly as it should-a small group of children is standing around now, arranged in an odd semi-circle around the two girls. But who had been in the doorway are dispersing to join the fringes of the group, in the hopes of prolonging the discovery-St Mary Abbots is the sort of school where a fight is a rare occurrence, which in turn generally means its’ pupils are rather keen to see one.

Nancy stays still, looking at her, gaze hard and unyielding, until Julianna, apparently deciding on defiance as her last recourse, tilts her own chin up, arms folded tightly across her chest. “I was only talking about what my dad said.”

Nancy only has a vague memory of Julianna’s dad, but she remembers him staring at her and Elwen a little too long over a glass of beer from across the churchyard, brow furrowed in a scowl. “Yeah? And what was that?”

Julianna shrugs, glancing at Amelia next to her for help, who’s looking awkwardly around, as though only just now noticing the crowd. “He says your dad only cares about rich people.” She straightens up, as though deciding her best defence is attack.

Nancy fixes her with a long gaze. “Then your dad can’t read.”

Julianna’s eyes narrow. “Your dad cuts benefits for poor people, my dad says. He says your dad just gives more money to rich people.”

“Your dad should like it, then” Nancy snaps back. “Because he’s rich, isn’t he?”

There are a few sniggers. Julianna swells indignantly. “My dad says we should vote for the people who make things better for poorer people.”

“My dad _does_ make things better for poorer people” Nancy says, drawing on vague half-details she’s picked up from overheard conversations. “It’s _your_ dad’s side that spends everyone’s money.” She’s fairly certain on this point, Dad having shown her a copy of a note that was left for him from one of the people in the last government, that he keeps in his desk: _Sorry, there is no money!_

“Only the people who are rich enough to give it” Julianna says, dark eyebrows knotting together, with the air of someone repeating something she’s heard with misplaced confidence. “My dad says your dad can’t understand anything about doctors and that because he’s always been rich.”

Nancy’s temper rises. “Well, maybe your dad can only understand criminals because he’s always been in prison.”

Julianna’s eyes flash. “You don’t know anything about my dad!”

“Don’t need to.” Nancy’s head tilts back, in a way that, although she doesn’t know it, is strangely reminiscent of her father standing at the dispatch box. “He had _you_ , didn’t he?”

There’s an intake of breath. At Nancy’s side, Lola dissolves into laughter, Elwen biting back his own giggles, his hand on Felix’s shoulder. Will looks cautiously hopeful, his eyes still darting back and forth between Nancy and Julianna, as though anticipating having to move quickly any moment. Nancy doesn’t blame him-Bea would probably have bitten someone by now.

Julianna steps forward, her cheeks scarlet, but her eyes ominously bright. So does Nancy, so the two of them are nose to nose. Julianna’s eyes are narrowed maliciously, her jaw tensed, but she seems oddly reluctant to say anything further, perhaps mindful of what else Nancy could say. Nancy stands still, deliberately letting the silence stretch out longer, her chest suddenly taut with a strange, almost unholy excitement, like the one that had filled her at the window of Uncle Giles’ holiday home in Cornwall, or from the backseat of the car, looking at those protesters at their gates, an instinct that she’s only just discovering telling her to stay still, to not be the one to walk away, long-buried but rising up as strongly as her instinct to breathe or speak.

Julianna turns and stalks off. Nancy watches her go, and then says, raising her voice slightly, instinctively, so the surrounding children can hear her, “Your dad’ll have more time to think about it next time he’s in jail.”

This time, there’s a little ripple of laughter that spreads out among the group. Julianna’s shoulders stiffen, and Nancy feels a savage wrench of satisfaction, fierce and hot in her chest, at the sight.

“What’s going on?” Miss Thompson has appeared at the top of the steps. Nancy turns to stare at her innocently, knowing somehow, without knowing how she knows, that Julianna won’t say anything, won’t dare to say anything, to risk bringing up her father’s past again, having to drag it out into the public for it to be turned over and examined and prodded and poked.

Lola elbows her in the side, May watching them wide-eyed, and Nancy answers on instinct, her eyes wide, her voice ringing clear, “We were just talking about our dads, Miss.”

Another wave of laughter ripples out. Miss Thompson eyes her suspiciously, and Nancy stares back, eyes wide and blue and innocently questioning, her heart beating in her chest, hot and hard with triumph.

“Was her dad really in prison?” Elwen whispers, once Miss Thompson seems to have decided that Nancy’s explanation will have to suffice, and the children are scattering into their separate lines for the register.

“Yes, but I don’t know what for.” Nancy elbows Lola in the chest, who’s still giggling, Will looking mightily relieved the interaction didn’t involve anything more than words. “Go on” she says, nodding at Elwen. “You need to get back to your line-“

Elwen nods, normal service between the siblings resuming now that their quarry’s been dealt with. But he lets his arm brush Nancy’s as he turns away, Felix following, and Nancy, in deference to what’s just happened, doesn’t object.

“That was epic” Lola whispers into her ear. “Julianna looked like a total moron. No wonder she had to come back here.”

Miss Thompson gives Nancy a suspicious look as she climbs up the steps to the coach. Nancy smiles happily back at her, an odd pull of that instinct again letting her know that that will annoy her teacher more, and yet leave her untouched. She smiles brightly, and then turns to skip down the bus aisle. On the same instinct, she lets her eyes skate over Julianna, sitting with her cheek pressed against the glass of the bus window, face turned away from the others, gaze brushing past her, as though she’s invisible, as though she doesn’t matter to Nancy at all. Instead, she walks right past her and, without thinking or hesitating, marches to the back of the bus, Lola and May following her.

It isn’t until the three of them have sat down that Nancy realises that nobody’s objected to them taking the back row of seats. Nor, she understands suddenly, innately, should she act as if it’s unusual. So, when Lola, casting a wide-eyed glance around the bus on one side of her, turns to stare at her and May, on the other side, Nancy just tugs her ponytail looser, and says “If we’re lucky, it’ll be the last bell by the time we get back.”

She leans back in the seat, Lola on one side of her, May on the other. Nancy doesn’t realise it, but if others had seen her, something about the tilt of her chin, the glint of her eyes, it would remind them extraordinarily of her father.

* * *

“And-it’s Simon Hughes, making the final turn-“ David leans back against the seat, clapping his hands, Nick laughing a few seats down from him. “He’s trailing behind the pack, but he’s catching up with the others, he’s the tortoise winning the race-“

A cheer breaks out as Simon finally appears at the door, walking down between the benches with a rueful grin.

“And he’s made it to the finish line-“

“Come on-“ Nick leans back in his seat. “We’ll have finished the next bloody Parliament by the time you turn up, Si-“

His leaning back is promptly ruined by Danny’s hand fastening into his sleeve and yanking him upright.

“Ow!” Nick hisses in pain, hand landing in the centre of his back. “For God’s sake, watch it, it’s bloody _tender-“_

“You’re just old.” Danny half-marches his boss down the steps into the Chamber. “Come on. Photo in front of the throne, now.”

David, slowly unfolding himself from the green benches, takes a moment to examine the rest of his fellow Lib Dem MPs, as they jostle and quarrel themselves into place, arranging in a sort of semi-circle around Nick in front of the Speaker’s Chair. Danny, with his ginger hair and glasses, still absent-mindedly tugging Nick’s arm, steering him to the front. Charles, older than the rest of them, the age starting to braid itself into the skin under his eyes-David, knowing Nick’s been worried about him lately, eyes him carefully for a few moments before his gaze moves on. Tim, sandy-haired and beaming, though David can’t help but wonder if he’s already sewing together the seeds of a leadership campaign. Jo, with the swish of her brown bob, small and Tigger-ish.

David wonders for the briefest of moments whether they’ll still struggle to crowd in front of the Speaker’s Chair after this election. And if not, which of them will still be sitting on the green benches. And which side of the House they’ll be on.

But Nick’s holding out his phone in front of them all, laughing for a few moments, still at the centre of the Chamber. “Cheese-“

There’s an answering chorus from the people around him, and so David smiles too.

There’s a second of beaming. There’s a flash, a click, and the moment is captured forever, even as it slides away in a heartbeat.

* * *

“George, do not have another breakdown” Dad says, without looking up from his red box. “You’ve got to walk out with the bloody red box in an hour and I don’t fancy anaesthetising you.”

“It’s all right.” Uncle George holds up his hands. “Didn’t have coffee this morning, I’m practically in a coma.”

Nancy wanders back to the kitchen table, tugging her ponytail back into place. “What time are we going over?”

Dad glances at the clock. “In about…an hour, after the red box.”

Nancy tugs at her shirt. She’s the only one who’s in the flat-Mum’s at work, and Michelle, their part-time nanny, took El and Flo to school earlier, both of them having been told their sister was ill in bed. Nancy had taken the opportunity to feign sickness close to heart, coughing weakly and laying back on her pillow, counting to sixty once she was sure her brother and sister had left the flat, and then leaping out of bed and galloping down to the canteen for a sausage and bacon sandwich.

Now, sitting contentedly back in the flat, she’s watching Dad and Uncle George prepare for the PMQs, before their advisers come in. Nancy is alternating between occupying herself with her sewing machine and wandering into the kitchen to ask questions. Luke and Liberty have both gone to school for the morning-she’d asked Liberty a few questions about what it was like when she went to the Budget last year, but as Liberty had revealed that she’d rather unhelpfully fallen asleep halfway through, her supply of information has been rather limited.

“How loud’s it going to be?” she asks, perching on the arm of the yellow sofa, fingers playing together.

Dad looks up at her over his glasses. “Very. Lots of shouting.”

“Can I shout?”

“No.” Dad doesn’t even hesitate. Uncle George smirks, eyes flickering to Nancy, then to Dad over the papers.

“Are we going to sit behind you?”

“No, I was thinking you’d sit opposite actually” Dad says, surprising Nancy slightly. “Behind Mr Miliband.” Off Nancy’s look, he says “That way, you can see us.”

“Can I shout down at him?”

“No.”

“Will _you_ shout at him?”

Uncle George’s smirk is even more pronounced this time. Nancy hears a thud, and Uncle George winces, though the smirk doesn’t fade.

Dad, glancing up at her, pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Probably.”

Uncle George snorts. There’s another thud, but this time Uncle George moves towards the end of the couch with a grin.

Nancy feels a small, savage flare of glee at this. It reminds her of yesterday, staring down Julianna at the Albert Hall, the hard, hot beating of her heart as she took the seat she wanted.

Dad eyes her a second longer. “Darling” he says, as Nancy bites into her second sandwich. “I’m going to do something that I don’t want you to copy.”

Nancy looks back at him, eyes wide over her mouthful of food.

“It won’t be pleasant” Dad warns her, but there’s a smile playing at his mouth, his eyes glinting. Uncle George watches him, his own eyes alive with something of the feeling in Nancy’s chest, a gleeful anticipation.

Nancy swallows her mouthful of food, and wriggles in her chair, counting down the minutes until she can see what she’s not meant to find pleasant, and decide if she does or not.

* * *

“Ready?” George said to Danny before they walked out of the door, at the head of the rest of the group, Priti standing a few inches away, excitement bubbling in her dark eyes.

Danny had looked at him, mouth parting slightly, and for a moment, George had thought he was about to say something. But then he’d just nodded, with a slight jerk of the head.

Now, he lifts the red budget box, his arm tensing automatically at the weight, which is always heavier than you’d expect. He’s aware of Danny at his side, their arms almost brushing.

“Is this an election-winning budget, Chancellor?”

George feels Danny stiffen at his side. He could look at him, but he doesn’t.

They’ve done the routine five times now, so when Danny moves away from him, as do the others, to walk to the side for the final photograph, it should be second nature. But this time, Danny stops for the slightest of seconds, his sleeve brushing George’s.

George could say something to him, the fact that this is the last Budget suddenly caught in his throat. But it’s less than a second, and the cameras are clicking, and he says “Thanks.”

Danny’s eyes meet his for less than a second, and he nods, an almost infinitesimal jerk of the head. And then he moves with the others, so that George is standing alone in front of the cameras. He grits his teeth and holds the Budget box out.

“Is this an election-winning Budget, Chancellor?”

The cameras flash.

* * *

“Girls-“ Liz touches Nancy and Liberty’s shoulders, where the two little girls are kneeling on a sofa, leaning against the window-sill, peering down into the street below. “Two minutes, and then we’ve got to go.”

Nancy nods, presses her nose against the glass. She can see Uncle George down in the street, holding the red box out in front of him.

“Look-“ Liberty nudges her. “He’ll-see, when he goes to his car-“

They watch as Uncle George walks down the road towards the black, long government car, like the one they’ll be getting into in five minutes, the one Daddy drove off in about twenty minutes ago.

“See-“ Liberty’s eyes track her father, until he turns at the car door. He glances up, directly at the window where his daughter and goddaughter stand, and, so quickly it lasts less than a second, winks.

Liberty waves back at him, happily, her eyes holding her father’s gaze. Uncle George is already moving, getting into his car, but even at this distance, Nancy thinks she can see his smile.

“Come on” says Liberty contentedly, and she wriggles down from the window ledge, turning to follow Liz down the corridor, the glimpse of her father all she wanted to see.

* * *

“OK-“ Dad gently tugs Nancy by the wrist down into the soft seat from where she’s leaning against the glass, peering down at the green benches below-is standing at the dispatch box, gesturing. “Listen, I’ve got to go and get ready.”

“OK.” Nancy barely glances at him, taking in the rows of seats set combatively opposite each other, the Speaker’s Throne with the small, squat figure of John Bercow perched under his shock of grey hair. She’s been in the House Of Commons before, plenty of times, but rarely up in the public gallery and never for a whole PMQs session. Liberty and Luke, who’d been dropped off at Downing Street less than a minute before they’d been due to leave, have been up there before, but with the feeling of an impending election, there’s still an air of anticipation humming between them.

The drive to the House Of Commons is less than five minutes, but Nancy likes counting how many protesters they can see with signs. Nancy’s grown to like watching the protesters in the last few years-they’re never able to get near Downing Street or their car, and since they go out the back to go to school, they usually can’t get near them to do anything other than shout and wave signs. Since their impact on her is limited to that, Nancy, who originally regarded them with the kind of detached amusement typical of children lucky enough to be unaffected by whatever is being shouted about, has felt safer taking a slightly more gleeful interest in their anger, the barriers between them making their words and pictures seem less real, almost like a game being carried out on the other side of the glass, that might amuse her, but that she doesn’t need to try to win.

This time, though, they didn’t see too many before they were driven through the archway into the courtyard, where they were led up to Dad’s office with George by one of the Doorkeepers, where Nancy’s main point of interest was the bowl of sweets Dad keeps on his desk.

“Your dad hasn’t come through yet” Dad says, following the other two’s gaze. “He’ll be going over the last words of the bloody thing.” His hand squeezes Nancy’s shoulder. “Do you want Liz to wait with you?”

Nancy shakes her head. She’s too busy staring through the glass. If she leans forward, peering down, she can see the heads of the Labour Party, opposite where Dad will be sitting. Everyone she’s met in the House Of Commons is always very nice to her, including Labour MPs, but Nancy always wonders if that’s just because they have to be, since they must know she’s with Dad, and so she’ll be wanting them to lose.

Dad kisses her head. “It’s going to be pretty noisy, OK?”

Nancy nods, wondering if she feels worried about that. If she’s meant to.

Dad squeezes her shoulder, and Nancy kisses his hand. “Good luck.”

Dad ruffles her hair, and Nancy turns back to the glass. If she presses her nose against the glass and peers down, she can see what looks like the top of Ed Miliband’s hair.

* * *

“Oh, bloody fucking hellfire” is how Balls greets Ed, having turned to glance up at the public gallery.

Ed’s so busy staring across the dispatch box, trying to focus on Osborne, but his gaze roaming back and forth to Cameron, that it takes him a moment to realise what he’s said.

“What?” He blinks, turning round to Balls, almost shaking his head slightly. “What is it, what’th-“

Balls’ teeth are gritted, and he jerks his head very slightly upwards. “Cameron brought his kids.”

Ed’s gaze snaps to the public gallery behind Cameron’s head, scanning the seats, but he doesn’t see any faces he recognizes.

Balls shakes his head. “Behind us” he says, almost mouthing it. “Osborne’s are there too.”

Ed feels a sickness grip his stomach. “Fuck” he mutters, tilting his head back, though that just takes the gallery above and behind him further out of his line of sight. “Fuck. That means-“

“You can’t fucking go down” Balls mutters. “It was their choice to bring their bloody kids.”

But both he and Ed know all too well that isn’t the case; from the glances Balls is sending towards the press gallery, Ed knows he’s picturing just what kind of a field day the sketchwriters will have if some barb he sends at Cameron gets one of the kids crying. Ed grits his teeth, glaring across at the top of Cameron’s head, which is bent over his papers studiously, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Trying to move as surreptitiously as possible, he leans out slowly from his seat, tilting his head again. If he angles his gaze very slightly, this time he makes out the dark heads of Osborne’s children, and in between them, the unmistakeable bobbing little ponytail of Nancy.

“It doesn’t matter” Balls mutters, with a glare aimed at Cameron that suggests it very much does matter. “It’s not even Cameron everyone’s going to be focused on today, it’s Osborne-“

“Yeah” says Ed, flatly. “And both of his are here.”

Balls shrugs. “Osborne’s kids aren’t in the media as much. And he brought his daughter last year. You’ll be fine.”

Ed shakes his head slightly, gaze focused on Cameron, who’s chatting with Osborne, nudging him slightly. He doesn’t look like a man who might be about to face his last PMQs next week. He looks like someone who’s wondering what he might have for dinner and who has never worried about anything more serious a day in his life.

The fact that it isn’t true just grates in Ed’s chest even more.

Cameron’s eyes dart to his own. Ed looks away, but a second too late. Cameron’s mouth twitches in a slight grin, and Ed feels himself glower, his heartbeat quickening.

* * *

“Questions to the Prime Minister!”

The blast of cheering almost knocks Nancy backwards, even though she’s sitting down. She nearly claps her hands to her ears, then pulls them away when she notices Dad standing up.

“Ian Murray-“

“Number one, Mr Speaker-“

She’s not the only one-Liberty, too, has reared back in her seat. Even Luke looks a little shell-shocked, but Nancy wriggles forward to the edge of her perch, this time with her hands braced cautiously in her lap, ready to cover her ears when the sound rises again.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker-this morning, I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others-“ Even though Nancy knows Dad must have done this hundreds of times, it’s still weird to see just how unfazed he looks by the sheer wall of noise. Nancy’s ears are still ringing with it, and she’s behind a sheet of glass.

“And in addition to my duties in this House, I shall have further such meetings later today-“

“Mr Ian Murray-“

Dad sits down again, but as he does so, he glances up at where Nancy’s sitting and gives her the faintest flicker of a wink. Nancy grins back, moving to the edge of her seat again now, Liberty doing the same.

“Thank you, Mr Speaker-“

“They do one or two questions first, I think” Liberty murmurs out of the corner of her mouth, though everyone else on the benches seems to be muttering without any concern. “And then Ed Miliband gets up and starts asking-“

Nancy pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as Liberty peers down at the Labour MP who’s speaking. “Prime Minister, when the Chancellor said in his first Budget _-“When we mean we are all in this together, we mean-When we are all in this together, we mean it-“-_ when-“

There’s already a wave of noise rising suddenly.

“When the Prime Minister-when the Prime Minister and the Chancellor came up with such a vacuous soundbite-“

“Spudhead” whispers Liberty, aiming a look of deep dislike at the MP. Nancy follows her lead in peering through the glass and notes the accuracy of the insult with a faint feeling of admiration.

Luke, too, is peering over the two girls’ heads. “Looks like Wayne Rooney if he ate too many pies.”

“-did they do so before they decided to give a £42,000-a-year tax cut to millionaires-“ Nancy has to struggle to hear the rest of his words under the tide of noise that rises immediately-some cheers from the benches immediately below them, but mainly booing and jeers from the benches behind Dad, with some people waving their sheets around.

“Or before they attempted and failed-“ The spudheaded man’s shouting now. Liberty laughs, her eyes glittering sharply.

“He’s so fat he can’t get his voice out” she whispers to Nancy, with a grin that’s more like the one Bea usually gives, and a little like her father’s. Nancy decides, with a spiteful little jolt in her own chest, that there are extenuating circumstances.

“To an-or before-or before they attempted and failed to eliminate the deficit on the back of the poorest?”

“Not like him, then” Luke says, sliding his phone into his pocket-Uncle George told him three times last night that he’ll personally smash the thing himself if he sees Luke holding it while he’s in the Commons. “He’s on £75,000 a year.”

Money and numbers wash over Nancy’s head-as they can, because she’s never had to worry about them. “Is that how much MPs are paid, then?”

Luke shrugs and nods, not actually much more sure than the girls, but Nancy turns back to the proceedings with renewed interest. She wonders, briefly, how much Dad gets paid, but at that moment she spots her father getting to his feet and tucks her hair behind her ears to listen carefully.

“Well, the fact is, the Honourable Gentleman cannot hide from the statistics that show that inequality is down, poverty is down-“ Nancy feels a rush of vindication for her words to Julianna the previous day.

“Three million of the poorest people have been taken out of income tax _altogether-“_ Nancy notices that Dad doesn’t bother looking at the spudheaded man-he looks round at his own benches, at the people who are clapping him, as though they’re the only important people. It reminds her of something, and then, with a fierce pride in her chest, she remembers her own instinct to look past Julianna yesterday, as though she didn’t even exist, or if she did, didn’t merit a glance.

“And most importantly, we’ve created jobs for tens of thousands of our fellow countrymen and women-and today we see the unemployment statistics with a record number of people in work-and in _his_ constituency, which I thought he would want to welcome-“

Nancy laughs slightly, wriggling back and forth in her seat, even as some of the words wash over her head. While she can work out what the words mean, she’s never seen an unemployment statistic in her life, and probably wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did. But she can tell her father’s winning the argument, without really trying, and knows without quite working out how she knows it, that that is the thing that will most grind in the thoughts of the people sitting straight below her.

“The claimant count has fallen since the election in his constituency by _49%-“_ Dad’s jabbing his glasses up and down, the way he does when he’s reading something in the papers which annoys him. _“That’s_ what’s happened- _that’s_ how we’re beating poverty!”

Dad has to shout the last few words to be heard over the clamour of cheers behind him. Nancy leans against the glass, having scrambled up out of her seat to get a better look, trying to get a better glance at the spudheaded man in the crowd, but she can’t find him in amongst the sea of faces.

“Nance, you’re in the way-“ Luke tugs her back by the arm. Nancy lets him, but she keeps her eyes fixed on Dad across the Chamber, her heart beating harder than it had the day before, when she’d watched Julianna’s face crumple and then turn away.

* * *

“Nancy’s getting excited” George mutters to David, as they hear Chris rattle through one of the pre-planted questions Michael worked out yesterday afternoon. “Luke just had to sit her down.”

David can’t help but grin, casting his eyes up briefly to his daughter in the public gallery. Nancy seems to have taken Luke’s words to heart for now, sitting in her seat, but David recognizes the impatient gleam in her eyes, the tapping of her foot, knows she’s waiting for the next explosion of noise below her.

“Are they looking OK?” he asks George, not wanting to draw too much attention to the children by looking up at them.

George risks another glance. “They’re all right. Liberty’s shouting something at Murray and Luke’s trying to stop Nancy from ripping the seat out.”

David chuckles, glances at Danny next to him. They finalised the seating arrangements with Nick yesterday, but he’d raised an eyebrow at George once they were alone together. “Danny still sure about doing this Lib Dem budget?”

One look at George’s grin had given him the answer.

“Did you tell him it was a bad idea?”

George’s grin had told him that, as well.

“You don’t want to bloody pulverise them” David had warned him, though unable to prevent a small grin tugging at his own mouth. “We might need them for another coalition.”

George’s lip had curled. “You’re the one who can’t stop yourself leaping into the trenches and bayoneting the wounded.”

The two of them had shared a smile, a nascent recognition.

Now, as David gets to his feet to answer Chris’s question, the lazy, easily-rehearsed answer swimming to the front of his mind, he chances another glance up at his daughter, gaze catching Miliband’s dark eyes as he does so. He pauses for a fraction of a second, takes in Miliband’s gaze, trained on him with almost laser-like intensity. David’s breath catches, the same competitive urge rearing in his chest, to stare back, to make Miliband look away first, but with a wrench, he manages to look away from Miliband and whatever he’s about to confront there next. He takes in Nancy under his eyelashes, the brightness of her eyes, the keen interest brightening her face with an almost unholy excitement, and realises, with a jolt in his chest, that she reminds him of someone.

* * *

“Ed Miliband-“

Nancy’s been expecting it this time, but the crash of noise still makes her jump slightly. But this time, she wriggles out of her seat, leaning forward and pressing her nose to the glass again, so that she can peer down directly at Mr Miliband’s dark head. He’s got his back to her, facing Dad, who’s not even glanced up at him, studying his papers. Nancy notices that there’s clapping going on on both sides of the benches-Dad had told her that it was a trick.

“It reminds Mr Miliband that our side’s happy that he’s there” Dad had told her last night, tucking her into bed and switching her fairy lights on. “Because he’s easier to beat than other people.”

Nancy had thought this over, Silver lying on her chest. “So it’s like reverse psychology?”

Dad had chuckled slightly, for some reason, kissing her head.

“Mr Speaker-“ Nancy can’t see Mr Ed Miliband’s facial expression, but his back seems oddly tense, like he’s holding himself stiff. “The Prime Minister promised before the last election no top-down reorganization of the NHS-“

There’s a wave of groans.

“In the words of the Chairman of the Conservative Party-“

Liberty, who’s joined Nancy at the glass, nudges her hard in the ribs. “That’s Natasha’s dad” she whispers in her ear. “Uncle Andrew.”

Nancy nods quickly, her eyes fixed on the scene below.

“-would he describe this as an _overdenial-“_

Liberty nudges Nancy again. Nancy glances up slightly impatiently, only to see Liberty nodding at the TV screens dangling at their eye-view just across from them, showing Mr Miliband’s face.

“Or simply a straightforward broken promise?” Mr Ed Miliband’s lisp seems to nearly trail onto the last word. His eyes are big and dark-he looks a little bit like an annoyed bird, in Nancy’s opinion, as he sits down. She waits, her feet tapping slightly, as Dad gets to his feet.

“What we did is we took the bureaucracy _out_ of the NHS-“ Dad’s voice has to get louder as the cheers of his own benches rise over it. Nancy glances at Liberty. “What’s bureaucracy?”

Liberty considers this for a long moment. “I think it’s to do with being official and things. Facts and numbers” she says, with the slightly-too-certain authority of someone else who isn’t entirely sure, either.

Nancy frowns, but looks back at the Chamber.

“Yes-we made _two_ big decisions-“ The benches below them are shouting now, their voices clashing together, but Nancy notices Dad doesn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, his eyes are brighter, as if the noise itself is spurring him on.

“Big decision number one was to put more money _in_ and big decision number two was to take the bureaucracy out- _that_ is why we have nine and a half thousand more doctors, seven and a half thousand more nurses-“ Dad points his glasses at somebody. “I can see the Shadow Chancellor chuckling-“

Liberty laughs, then presses Nancy’s elbow. “Ed Balls-“

Nancy tries to peer down through the glass but can’t quite make him out. It takes her a moment to remember, with a dull jolt, that that’s Maddy’s dad.

“We-we know the Shadow Chancellor wants to be in the kitchen Cabinet-“ Dad’s grinning now, his eyes almost but not quite drifting up to Nancy and the others. “He just doesn’t know _which kitchen to turn up to!”_

Nancy jumps up at the same moment as the cheers surge loudly through the air, punching her fists. Liberty’s laughing next to her. Even Luke doesn’t tell them to move out the way this time, all three of their gazes fixed on the clamour below, and on Mr Ed Miliband getting slowly to his feet.

* * *

“Somehow-somehow-somehow-somehow, Mr Th-Speaker-I thought he might mention kitchens-“

Ed’s gone over this line a thousand times with Ayesha-“Every question’s going to become about kitchens” as she’d put it to him the day before, flatly-but it still niggles in his chest, the edge of smugness curving Cameron’s grin as he glances up behind Ed’s head, presumably at his daughter bouncing in the gallery.

“Let me just say, let me just say-“

“Come on!” Ed’s not sure which MP the line comes from, but it gnarls his temper still further.

“At least I _paid_ for my kitchen, unlike the Government Chief Whip!

Cameron laughs, to Ed’s intense irritation. Even Harriet suddenly braying next to him doesn’t help.

“Now-now-now-“ Ed’s words are falling over each other slightly, but Cameron’s still laughing, nudging Osborne next to him. Something about the way they both glance at Gove, further down the bench, with a sort of comradely cheer, a sense of shared mischief, sends a wave of intense irritation through him.

“Now let’s get back-“ He can see Osborne’s gaze directed up at the public gallery behind him, resists turning round to look at what’s going on. It’s not as though Gove’s children are there.

“L-let’s get back to the NHS-so, _first_ broken promise on top-down reorganization-next-he said- _“I refuse to go back to the days when people had to wait for hours on end to be seen in A &E-“”_

He straightens up slightly, trying not to glare at the sheer rosiness of Cameron’s cheeks-he looks almost indecently healthy.

“Now we learn-the NHS will miss the four-hour A&E target for the whole of this year for the first time ever-“ Ed leans forward slightly, gorge rising at the sight of Cameron grinning up at the public gallery, as though there’s no one asking him questions at all. “Why did he break that promise?”

* * *

David grins up at Nancy, wondering if she can lip-read well enough to mouth up at her that she’s got a line coming up, but deciding against it. Instead, he settles for giving her the tiniest of waves as Miliband burbles himself to a standstill before he almost bounces upright.

“Well-well-well, which of his kitchens _did_ he pay for-“

The laughter, reliably, bubbles out around him, but he keeps his eyes on Miliband. Miliband’s grin is taut, and his fingers tighten around his papers-David knows this is what winds Miliband up most, every one of his questions being diverted with something David can use to make the headlines, and perversely, he enjoys it more, like a toddler given every button to press.

“I think we-er-we-deserve an ans-no, look, I-I do feel sorry-“

He gives Miliband an innocent, wide-eyed look over the dispatch box. Miliband shakes his head slightly back at him, dark eyes widening indignantly, and David feels a similar jolt through his body as he did two days ago, his mouth buried in Miliband’s neck, hearing him gasp-

“I feel sorry for the Leader Of The Opposition-“ and, perhaps partly to get his mind off those more inconvenient thoughts, he raises his voice slightly, to be sure Nancy can hear the line she came up with echo around the Commons- _“He_ _literally doesn’t know_ _where his next meal’s coming from!”_

* * *

“I feel sorry for the Leader Of The Opposition-“ Dad’s voice is louder now, laughter rising up underneath and Nancy, who hasn’t taken her seat since Mr Ed Miliband stood up, is now pressed against the glass, almost bouncing on the toes of her shoes with excitement at the clash of voices below.

 _“He_ _literally doesn’t know_ _where his next meal’s coming from!”_

Nancy punches the air with a cheer, pride exploding through her chest, hers’ and Liberty’s shoulders bumping each other as they jump up and down. Even Luke laughs at that, having moved to the edge of his seat to take in the scenes below, his eyes bright, more alive with interest. Dad’s laughing, turned to the benches behind him, but as he turns back, his gaze flickers up to Nancy, and he gives her the smallest of winks.

“That was mine” Nancy feels bound to inform Liberty and Luke, though Liberty was there to hear her say it. “I told him that.”

“There, well-oh, don’t worry-“ Dad’s pointing his glasses at one of the people behind him. “There’s plenty more-“

Nancy glances back at the TV screens overhead, and feels another punch of pride at the amount of people on the benches behind Mr Ed Miliband who look furious.

“He asks about Accident & Emergency-so far this year, 93.7% of people have been seen within the four hours-“

Nancy lets the statistics drift by a little, already counting down the minutes to when Dad and Mr Ed Miliband get to shout something at each other again. Her eyes move briefly down the bench to where Mr Nick Clegg’s pulling at something on his sleeve-Nancy remembers him coming to their house at Dean to play tennis. She stares at him for a moment, then looks back at Dad.

“I want us to do better, we’ll bring together the health and social care to make that happen, but we made a promise which is that we would put £12.7 billion into the NHS- _they_ said it was irresponsible- _we_ invested in our health service!”

Nancy waves furiously as Dad lifts his folder down again. She’s so happy, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding, that she almost doesn’t care what Mr Ed Miliband says next-she just wants to see what Dad says back to him.

* * *

“Ed Miliband-“

“That’s _another_ broken promise on Accident & Emergency-“ Ed feels a prod of irritation that facts and figures don’t get cheered the way Cameron’s bloody one-liners do.

(Then again, they do when Cameron says them. Cameron always gets cheers.)

“Now, let’s turn to _cancer_ -on _cancer_ , he said the key issue was how long people had to wait to get treatment, but the NHS is _missing_ the 62-day treatment target-“ He leans over the dispatch box, instinctively searching out Cameron’s eyeline, his heartbeat suddenly drumming at the smirk on Cameron’s face, the pinkness of his cheeks, the bright blue of his eyes, the way Ed’s fingers had carded through his hair-

“ _Why_ did he break that promise?”

Cameron just leans on the dispatch box, on one elbow. Like he can’t even be bothered standing up.

“Well, let me-let me-let me bring him closer to home-and in this, genuinely-“

Ed grips his papers so hard they nearly rip and tells himself that if there’s another bloody kitchen joke, he’ll throw them at Cameron.

“The home in-in Doncaster-here are-“ Cameron gives the benches behind him a politely incredulous look. Ed itches to wipe it off his face, fasten his hands into his suit-

“This _is_ the answer-here are-here are the cancer waiting times for his constituents-“

Ed nearly throws the papers anyway. His eyes light on Cameron’s glasses as he fumes.

He hasn’t kissed Cameron in those glasses, he thinks suddenly. He’s thought about it, maybe, possibly, perhaps even without realising it, but he can’t remember if he’s ever actually done it, and suddenly, he’s picturing it, his fingers tracing the plastic frames, caressing Cameron’s ears-

-“95.2% of patients with suspected cancer were seen by a specialist within two weeks-“

Cameron’s holding the glasses now. Ed tries not to follow them with his gaze.

“And the target is 93%-“ Cameron brings the glasses down again. “Target _met-_ 97. _9%_ of patients diagnosed with cancer-“

The glasses are perched neatly on his nose, like they could fall down. Ed envisions, madly, pushing them up with one finger.

“-began treatment within 30 days-the target is 96%-“ Cameron’s glancing up at his backbenchers now, the glasses coming down again. “Target _met_ -87% of patients began cancer treatment within 62 days of an urgent GP referral-target 85%-target _met-“_

The glasses again. Ed’s trying frantically to wrestle his thoughts away from the glasses, along with the flush of Cameron’s cheeks, the way his voice is rising, as though Ed’s managed to get under his skin ever so slightly-

“The fact is, on the NHS, we’ve put in the investment, we increased the doctors, we increased the nurses-“ Cameron’s turning back to the dispatch box. “And frankly-“

His gaze meets Ed’s for less than a second, but it’s enough to send a strange, hot quiver through him.

“If he can’t stand the heat, he’d better get out of his second kitchen!”

The cheers rise up over the words even as Cameron sits down. Ed grits his teeth, his hands suddenly unsure what to do with themselves, even as he takes in the sheer mop of Cameron’s hair and remembers fastening his fingers into it.

* * *

“Mr Th-Speaker-I think that was a longwinded way of saying he’s broken his promithses on the NHS-“

David stares directly back at him, taking a small jab of satisfaction in the fact that Miliband looks away first. He reflects, slightly darkly, on just how unhealthy that is, and then decides to be thankful that Miliband hasn’t started waving his finger again.

“Now, let’s turn to _another_ one of his promises-“

He has. David tries not to bite his lip.

“He promised _a bare-knuckle fight_ to stop the closure of A&E and maternity units-“

That finger’s distracting. Miliband’s fingers are distracting. Very distracting. During almost the whole of his last question, David had been trying not to remember exactly how it felt having those fingers curled into his hair, tugging at his head, almost as if bossing him about. The thought sends a guilty thrill down his spine, his trouser suddenly tightening, making him yank his folders into place a little more quickly than usual.

“He even did _photocalls_ -outside the hospitals whose units then closed-“

Oh God, that finger. David has no idea why it’s affecting him this much, but it is. Miliband’s big dark eyes are staring at him, eyeballing him from across the dispatch box. David can feel heat creeping up his cheeks from under his collar. The fact the reason isn’t entirely unpleasant is bad enough.

“Why did he break the promise?”

Even Miliband trying to sound like a schoolteacher isn’t helping. Even if Miliband would be the type of schoolteacher who puts his name on his pencil cases.

Now, David’s suddenly trying desperately not to think about Miliband being schoolteacherly.

“Well, I’m very glad-I’m very glad he has raised this issue-“

He manages to turn himself to the side, pressing himself against the dispatch box slightly and just prays that none of the Cabinet are minded to rabidly stare at his crotch.

“Because at a previous Prime Minister’s Questions, he stood _there_ and produced a list of, I believe, 27 hospitals-“

He’s using his own finger now. He can’t help it, as though he needs Miliband to feel at least a little of the distraction he’s feeling, thinking about those long, nimble fingers-

 _“-seven_ of which were shut under a _Labour government!”_

Miliband’s shaking his head, but David can’t look at him, managing to steady his breathing, gripping his folder tightly with both hands, telling himself not to panic, to just sit down, he can, he can-

“That is how incompetent he is as Leader Of The Opposition-“

Miliband’s shaking his head, but his eyes are carefully angled away from David’s, and David knows on instinct suddenly, that Miliband’s keeping his gaze averted in exactly the same way David’s trying to keep his thoughts on track, away from those jabbing fingers and self-righteous, pompous little tone and big, dark eyes-

“-just _imagine_ what he’d make-a mess he’d make if he was running the _country!”_

He sits down, tells himself his legs aren’t suddenly a little weaker, and prays Miliband won’t use that finger of his again.

* * *

“Great, Mr Speaker, because I’ve got a _photo_ of him _here-“_

Ed leans against the dispatch box, trying not to let his eyes track that blush rising up Cameron’s cheeks. Trying not to think about what it could mean.

_“Chase Farm Hospital-“_

Trying not to think about the way Cameron’s eyes had tracked his finger waving slowly, avidly, the way he’d yanked his papers into his lap.

“This is-this is what he said-“

He doesn’t know whether to use the finger again or not, and so he’s folding his hand closed, because suddenly all he can think about is what Cameron might be picturing with that finger and then he’s picturing what Cameron might be picturing with that finger and his mind reels back from it, because that’s too-that’s too-

_“”If you call an election on November the 1 st, we’ll stop the closure of services on this hospital onNovemberthe2nd-“”_

His words are running into each other and he can feel a bright blush spreading up his cheeks, because oh God, his thoughts have just taken him to what Cameron might be thinking of and he-that can’t-he can’t-

“Then he _closed_ the services-“ A part of him knows, vaguely, that he’s shouting, that his hands are going wild, but it’s better _that_ than thinking about what-about what-what he might have-

 _“That_ is what happened on his watch- _now_ , since the _last_ election-“ He pulls his thoughts with some effort back to the Chamber, feeling entirely too hot under the collar.

“He’s broken his health service promises on waiting times, cancer treatment-“

Cameron’s eyes have dropped to his fingers again. Ed nearly follows his gaze, and then realises, with a gulp, what he’s doing-counting them off-letting himself stretch and extend those fingers-

“A&E, and on the top-down reorganization-“

He’s not sure what makes him look straight at Cameron then, what makes him bring his hand up so his fingers are in full view.

“When he makes a whole series of _new_ NHS promises-why on _earth_ should _anyone_ believe him?”

When Cameron gets up, his voice shakes ever so slightly. Probably no one else would have noticed it. But Ed does, and he notices Cameron’s gaze linger on his hands for a fraction of a second.

“I tell you why people should believe us-“ Cameron’s cheeks are a little more flushed than usual. “Because we have the strong economy that can _deliver_ a strong NHS-“

Ed wonders, madly, if what Cameron’s doing with those glasses is a taste of his own medicine.

“We promised more money for our NHS-“ Cameron swoops his own finger down. “Promise _delivered-“_

Ed feels another delighted shiver go through him.

“We promised more _nurses_ for our NHS-promise _delivered-“_

If his fingers affect Cameron half as much as those glasses or Cameron’s hands or Cameron’s-and then Ed realises what he just thought and feels himself blush like an idiot.

“We promised more _doctors_ for our NHS-promise _delivered-“_

If Cameron’s thinking-that-about Ed’s fingers-Ed’s gaze follows Cameron’s hand helplessly, his strong fingers wrapped around his glasses-does that-would that work the-the-

Ed feels faint.

“We said that we would sort out the mixed-sex wards, the hospital-acquired infections-promise delivered-but isn’t it _interesting_ , Mr Speaker-“

Oh God, Cameron definitely knows what he’s doing.

 _“Five questions-“_ All five of Cameron’s fingers stretch out this time. Ed tries frantically not to remember what he just thought Cameron might want him to be imagining right now.

“And not _one mention_ of the unemployment figures today-“

The tide of cheers behind Cameron is a wash of background noise. Ed’s cheeks are burning with what he’s just imagined or come close to imagining. He fights the urge to pull at his collar.

Cameron’s _children_ are sitting behind him, for God’s sake.

“He cannot _bear_ the fact that the employment rate in our country is at a record level-there are a record number of people in work, a record number of _women_ in work-“

Ed’s eyes watch the glasses, even as he tells himself firmly not to. Something in his body seems to purr at the sight.

“The record number of vacancies- _that’s_ what this country’s delivering-a strong economy-that builds a strong NHS!”

Ed’s far too relieved when Cameron sits down.

* * *

“Ed Miliband-

 _“People_ are worse off-and the NHS is worse off-“

David deliberately holds Ed’s gaze for a long moment. It’s a struggle of sheer defiance, because if Miliband thinks he’s going to look away-just because of- _that-_

“-on _his_ watch-and that’s why working families-“

That finger jabbing away, and David’s body almost hums pleasurably at the imagery that produces, even as he tries to push away the mischievous temptation to think about those long, slender, fingers-

“-cannot-cannot afford another five years of _him-“_

Even through his own growing haze, David can’t help but notice that Miliband’s cheeks are more flushed than usual, that he’s falling over his words a little faster.

“And _everybody_ knows-“ Miliband’s hand has a life of its own now. “The NHS cannot survive another five years of this Government-the NHS was _built_ by Labour-“

“My God, he’s bringing Bevan up” George mutters, David grabbing onto the words like a liferaft. “Next, he’ll be digging up Beveridge’s corpse and dragging it into the House Of Commons.”

David doesn’t have to try to laugh at that.

 _“-saved_ by Labour-and will _only_ be safe in the hands of the _next Labour government!”_

“Do you think he’s going to make the NHS the centrepiece of his campaign at all?” asks George, straight-faced. “Pity he seems to have forgotten Henry Willink…”

David gets up slowly, knowing it will creep under Miliband’s skin even more.

“Now, there is-there is only _one_ government in the _history_ of the NHS-“ He’s enjoying the sight of Miliband rooting for his papers a little too much.

“That _cut_ the NHS-and it was the last _Labour_ government in the ‘70s!“

He always knows when Miliband’s laughing too hard. There’s something almost sweet about it, particularly when contrasted with the overt look of outrage Balls is wearing next to him.

“They did it because they _lost control_ of the economy- _every forecast_ he has made about the economy has been _wrong-_ he said there’d be no _jobs-“_

If Miliband’s using his fingers, two can play at that game.

“We have _record_ jobs-he said we wouldn’t cut the deficit-the deficit is _down-“_

He keeps his gaze away from Miliband this time, reminding himself furiously that his daughter’s up in the public gallery, for God’s sake.

“He said there wouldn’t be growth-we’ve got the strongest growth for _any major Western economy-he_ has made _misjudgement-“_

He makes sure to bring his finger down slowly.

“After _misjudgement_ -on every single question-we _talk_ about our long-term economic plan-“ This should satisfy Lynton. “Because it’s about _changing_ lives-it’s about _jobs-_ it’s about _livelihoods-_ it’s about giving people the chance of _security-“_

His gaze is fixed on Miliband now, his glasses held aloft, watching Miliband jut his chin defiantly back at him. But there’s something prickling in his dark eyes, a strange heat.

 _“That_ is what will be on the ballot paper in fifty days time-“

He looks away from Miliband, as though he doesn’t exist.

“And they will _never_ trust _him_ with the _future_ of _our country!”_

The tidal wave of cheers sweeps up around him as he sits down, his heart pounding a little more than usual, breathing hard, and then he remembers, almost too late-this is their penultimate session.

He’s got one more of those against Miliband to go. One more.

The thought leaves a strange ache in David’s chest. He has no idea why, so he shakes his head slightly, and forces himself to look up at the public gallery instead.

He manages a smile at the sight of the three children. Luke’s grinning, having sat back in his seat for the interval that will take place between the main six questions and the Budget. Liberty’s cheeks are flushed, her hands gripping the bar by the glass pane shielding them from the rest of the Chamber. But Nancy’s jumping up and down between them, her little fists pumping the air, her face set in a hard, blazing look that brightens her eyes, leaves her features almost shockingly alive, and looking up at her, David has the strange realisation that it’s the same look she was wearing earlier, and that it’s one he’s recognized on his own face, looking back at himself.

* * *

_“That_ is what will be on the ballot paper in fifty days time-“

Nancy’s shoulder clashes with Liberty’s as she watches her father. Liberty mouths an apology to her, but Nancy doesn’t even feel the pain-she’s too busy taking in the sheer wall of noise below, the crashing together of voices and shrieks.

“And they will _never_ trust _him_ with _the future_ of _our country!”_

Nancy promptly nearly returns the favour to Liberty, leaping into the air, punching both fists above her head-Liberty’s only saved from a bruise by her brother pulling her out of the way. Nancy’s innocently oblivious to the mingled looks of amusement and fondness she’s drawing from the press box-instead, she’s almost entirely focused on her father, the rush of victory she feels at his last words to Mr Ed Miliband as strong as if she’d said them herself.

“Uncle David won that” Liberty says, confidently, to Nancy, holding onto her arm as they both jump up and down, unconsciously falling into rhythm with the cheering of the crowds below.

“Daddy won” Nancy says confidently, her little heart pounding hard in her chest, her chin jutting out defiantly. “Daddy beat him by miles.”

Her father’s gaze flickers up to hers’ through the glass, his smile widening into a grin when he catches sight of her. He gives her a small wave and Nancy stares back at him, fiercely proud, catching the glint of something like recognition in his eyes.

It’s something that, though she doesn’t know it, is in her own too, the triumphant roaring in her chest a magnified version of the victorious rush she felt when she made Julianna turn away from her the previous day, when she heard her father saying her own words to Mr Ed Miliband. It’s something that can be seen, a little, in the look on her own face, and if she looked at them side by side in a mirror, she’d see a look extraordinarily like her father’s.

But for now, Nancy stares back at Daddy with a sort of fierce happiness for a few more seconds, before she takes a step back, then another, and then takes her seat, exhaustion settling into her small body as much as if she’d been the one standing at a dispatch box, and she leans back, Luke on one side of her and Liberty on the other, to await the ever-decreasing number of questions that stretch across the time between now and the moment of the Budget.

* * *

_Playlist_

_I Hate Myself For Loving You-Joan Jett And The Blackhearts_ _-"I hate myself for loving you/Can't break free from the things that you do/I want to walk but I run back to you/That's why I hate myself for loving you/Daylight, spent the night without you/But I've been dreamin' 'bout the loving you do..."_

 _Was It Me?-The Colony House_ _-"We'd be much happier if we focused on ourselves/Let's forget all about it/Pretend we'll be okay/It's time to turn this page..._

_Sex-The 1975-“And this is how it starts…And she said use your hands and my spare time/We’ve got one thing in common and it’s this tongue of mine…There’s only minutes before I drop you off/And all we seem to do is talk about sex…Now we are on the bed in my room/And I’m about to fill his shoes/But you say no/Do you say no?...And I’m not trying to stop you love/But if we’re gonna do anything we might as well just fuck/She’s got a boyfriend anyway/She’s got a boyfriend anyway”_

_Buzzcut Season-Lorde -“Explosions on TV and all the girls with heads inside a dream/So now we live beside the pool, where everything is good/We ride the bus with the knees pulled in/People should see how we’re living…The men up on the news, they try to tell us all that we will lose/But it’s so easy in this blue, where everything is good…I live in a hologram with you/Where all the things that we do for fun (and I’ll breathe, and it goes)/Play along (make believe it’s hyper-real)/But I live in a hologram with you…Explosions on TV and all the girls with heads inside a dream/So now we live beside the pool where everything is good”_

_Games-The Birthday Massacre-“ Smile, feign, fix until all faces look the same/Hearts so full of fear, and their eyes so full of rain/Born to lose, but I still play the same game/Again and again/Blindside/Love is just a stranger that will pass by/Devils look like angels as they catch my eye/Tell you when, if you can tell me/Why, why? Why do I try?/I want the stars from your eyes/I’ll take the stars from your eyes..Counting on my fingers ‘til there’s no one to blame/Different voice, but I still hear the same name/Again and again/White lies/One last call until we say goodbye/Save these cruel intentions for another night/I’ll be there and I still won’t know/Why, why, why do I try?...Another scar is left behind/I want the stars in your eyes/I’ll take the stars from your eyes”_

_Spring 1-Vivaldi (Remastered By Max Richter)_ _(Instrumental)-I was listening to this while I was writing the PMQs scenes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nancy did come up with the "he literally doesn't know where his next meal is coming from" line:https://bit.ly/2tILup7  
> Liberty previously attending George's Budget:https://bit.ly/2ycPmkc  
> Some of Nancy's reactions at the PMQs she would attend the week after this one (with Samantha and Elwen):https://bit.ly/2Q3WHYI  
> https://bit.ly/2PLonCU  
> https://bit.ly/2Mk3yfD  
> Nancy and Elwen are very protective of their dad:https://bit.ly/3atPSJ1  
> That week's PMQs:https://bit.ly/2rlZ94A  
> David's Sun video:https://bit.ly/36ZcjDK  
> David being interviewed by Susanna:https://bit.ly/2MjjkqU  
> https://bit.ly/2tytY6D  
> https://bit.ly/38UOmiy  
> Nancy making and selling things:https://bit.ly/2SmeJbz  
> Nancy disliking her dad's red boxes comes from his resignation speech:https://bit.ly/2QaLJk6  
> https://dailym.ai/2EDPtFD  
> https://bit.ly/2ULkleP  
> https://bit.ly/2w0R5bK  
> David Aaronovitch's article about Ed:https://bit.ly/2tGre7q  
> Ed in Leeds:https://bit.ly/35RRhXC  
> Dave's barber:https://bit.ly/2PJnpa0  
> Dave, Ed and Nick at the memorial service:https://bbc.in/35MiWci  
> https://dailym.ai/2s0nAoA  
> Danny losing his seat:https://bit.ly/2Mg84vG  
> Dave's interview with Heat:https://bit.ly/2tI3Y99  
> https://bit.ly/2Z9SVRM  
> https://bit.ly/2ZaqJ19  
> https://bit.ly/2ZelA8e  
> https://bit.ly/2PM19wr  
> George presenting the Budget red box: https://bit.ly/2sac5La  
> https://bit.ly/2MklbvC  
> Craig having previously worked at the BBC:https://bbc.in/2Q83cJV  
> Susanna getting flak for supposedly flirting with Dave:https://dailym.ai/2EDMdKp  
> https://bit.ly/2ZdaP5V  
> The incident Alastair mentions with Peter:https://bit.ly/2ZcG2q1  
> Bea getting the train: https://dailym.ai/2Smcipr  
> The "there is no money" letter:https://bit.ly/34Lz3Fu  
> https://bit.ly/2PLr1bO  
> https://bit.ly/2Mj2lVX  
> The financial arguments Dave brings up to Ed: https://bbc.in/2Sh2i0C  
> https://bit.ly/393qwRK  
> Liberty loves books and wanted to be an author:https://bit.ly/2Mkah9d  
> https://bit.ly/35LDr91  
> She also loves interior design shows:https://bit.ly/2rfrZmY  
> Frances was a Man Booker judge:https://bit.ly/2Smd85z  
> The Camerons rented their house out so they couldn't return immediately when he resigned:https://dailym.ai/2Sf6zl2  
> https://bit.ly/36YTMax  
> https://bit.ly/36YU1lX  
> The Royal Albert Hall where Nancy goes on her trip and the steps, where she has her argument:https://bit.ly/33WazdT  
> https://bit.ly/2JmRoRl  
> https://bit.ly/3dCpT3P  
> The reference to Bea and biting:https://bit.ly/2rm3a9a  
> The mention of Michelle, the Camerons' other nanny:https://bit.ly/36VHhwo  
> https://shutr.bz/2vZ0r7K  
> https://shutr.bz/39woPLL  
> The reference Ed makes to Michael in PMQs:https://bit.ly/34JXza8  
> When Dave mentions Labour cutting the NHS in the '70s, he's referring to the IMF Crisis:https://bit.ly/2UY5gH9  
> Beveridge was the author of the Beveridge Report, which contained many of the recommendations for the modern welfare state:https://bit.ly/2JmsgtP  
> Henry Willink, the man George references, and his idea for the NHS:https://bit.ly/2Mk7op3  
> The kids being seated opposite the Government benches:https://bit.ly/2rY1pPP  
> Nick's trip to Dean:https://bit.ly/2JmRKaD  
> The Cameron kids using the Downing Street canteen for breakfast:https://bit.ly/2EHN5Oc


	11. Cross-Party Contriving, Dubiousness of Duplicity And The Ubiquity Of Collective Unconscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which there are too many Irises, Peter's balcony is a place for plotting and George definitely does not wriggle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
> If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
> Leave a comment, kudos, etc.  
> (And yes, the fic is finally back on track :). Stay safe everyone.))

_George: **You know, looking back, it was sort of extraordinary being shadow Chancellor at 33 and-erm-and terrifying. I mean, it was-erm-you know, we were just talking about it before I came onstage-erm-you know, I was up against Gordon Brown. Gordon Brown had killed the last six shadow Chancellors-the last six. They-these were figures who, like-Michael Portillo and Michael Howard and these were big, sort of, like figures in the Tory world. Oliver Letwin....so, you know, big, big figures and you know, I stood up there to face this guy and-right at the top of his powers as Chancellor....I mean, I think it's, it's difficult to remember that the politics I grew up in as an MP-Blair was-you know, Tony Blair was totally dominant, Gordon Brown was totally dominant. I mean, I-'til that invasion of Iraq but it was going well so far....It was definitely one of the-kind of scariest things I did in my profession was, was-people don't realise in the House Of Commons-and in fact, most MPs don't really experience this, because-you'll have noticed on television, when they're speaking, it's, it's half-empty or it's not really agitated-it's literally only the Prime Minister and the Leader Of The Opposition and the Chancellor and the Shadow Chancellor who routinely speak to a completely full House Of Commons-and you, I, you know, it's a room like this and literally at this distance, you know, these guys are like, a few yards, a couple of yards, you have got 350 Labour MPs shouting at you-like, shouting at you. And of course, the first thing you do because you can't hear yourself-it's a natural thing-well, you just kind of stop talking because with all the shouting you can't be heard. And of course, they just kind of love that...and-erm-they shout even more. And it was-er-my baptism of fire, really, and, er...**_

_Matt: **So what was he like, in that first exchange?**_

_George: Well, it was-I got up and-Tony Blair had just been re-elected, this was in 2005, ancient history-erm-he'd actually come to Tony Blair's rescue in the election, so he was the guy who also seemed to have triumphed in the election. Erm-and he'd got in, got a new constituency, so he was a member for Kirkcaldy and Cowdenbeath, as opposed to Dumferline East-bit technical, but I was looking for a-an easy way in, you know, to kind of-and also a nice sort of self-deprecating, polite way-and, and so I said, er, "Can I congratulate the Right Honourable-Right Honourable Gentleman for becoming the new Honourable Member for "Kirk-caldy" and Cowdenbeath?" and this Labour MP said "It's "Kirkaldy", you southern twat!"_

_(Everyone laughs)_

_George: **And that was literally-the whole House Of Commons burst into laughter. And that was like-I was really, genuinely, full of admiration for the-what you do in stand-up comedy...but I tell you what, if you die, if you die in the House Of Commons, it is a terrible , terrible feeling. It kind of-the ground opens up, and it is just like "Get me out of here-"-I mean, you know, you've got like another half-hour-and you've lost your own side, of course, and all the politicsters are going "Ooh, I knew it was a mistake making him the Shadow Chancellor, I was right-", as you can see.** -[George Osborne talking about his first time at the despatch box, on Matt Forde's Political Party Podcast in 2018](https://player.fm/series/the-political-party/show-95-george-osborne-live)_

* * *

_During the ensuing week, this reluctance to run was hardened by two experiences. On 17 May he endured his first Commons showdown with Brown. He was confronted by an orchestrated wall of noise from the Labour benches and struggled to test his intimidating opponent. As he peered over the despatch box, he understood that his most pressing priority was simply to survive as Shadow Chancellor…_

_Every Tory leader since Hague has called on Osborne’s counsel before PMQs. Compared to summoning great thoughts about policy, this seems like a frivolous service to render, but the first step to political advancement is simply being in the room. Week after week, for hours at a time, Osborne was eyeball to eyeball with Hague, and then Duncan Smith, and then Howard. Few frontbenchers, let alone advisers, had such intimate opportunities to impress. **“He made his career at PMQs** ” says a friend._

_Osborne’s deft mimicry in these PMQs sessions offered glimpses of a much deeper personal quality. He is a perspicacious analyst of people, including himself. He studies humans as assiduously as more conventional politicians study ideas. The bookshelves in Osborne’s Tatton home are dominated by biographies, not works of political theory or economics. The second of his laws of political success, as cheekily itemised by Hague at his fortieth birthday party, is to get inside an opponent’s mind and soul. Only by grasping their motives, insecurities, impulses and habits of thought can their future moves be foreseen. It is a pugilistic take on empathy and would later enable Osborne to rattle Gordon Brown in a way no other Shadow Chancellor had managed. -George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_The Wednesday morning prep for PMQs quickly descends into a war of words-a political rap competition. Michael Gove is rapper in chief. He perches on his seat, Pret coffee in hand, producing ingenious but mostly unusable couplets. In intense gameplayer mode, George arranges the moves in his head. Neither of these men are new to this. George has been helping prime ministers prepare for PMQs since he was in his twenties, working for John Major.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Downstairs, after a swift morning meeting I would meet with the PMQs team, plus a wider group including George Osborne, Michael Gove, Gabby Bertin, Kate Fall and frequently Danny Finkelstein, in my study. From time to time other MPs would join us, such as James Cartlidge. These meetings were often a riot of laughter as we tried to come up with the most topical jokes, put-downs and what we’d call **“zingers”** -the comments that the House would howl at, the journalists would tweet and the broadcasters would clip on their evening bulletins. Michael would turn up with a Pret sandwich or bowl of porridge which we’d have to watch him eat while he reeled off the material he’d diligently prepared-some brilliant, most unusable. He’d make up poems; he’d write raps. He’d link together two stories of the day, something from popular culture, something from the other side of the world, and then deliver it with Carry On campness.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_For me, PMQs was also a real bonding experience with the parliamentary party. I think they felt respect, given how hard the performance is. As George would say, **“It’s the only time the people behind you don’t want your job.”** Afterwards, I would go to the Members’ dining room, sit at the long table with Conservative MPs and chat about what had just happened, and listen to the parliamentary gossip. On Wednesdays lunch was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which I would wash down with a glass of red wine-and try to unwind after the adrenalin hit of PMQs. I may have had a reputation for being aloof from my MPs, but I am quite sure that this was a routine no other prime minister in living memory had kept up.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Good-looking and impeccably connected, Osborne was also becoming something of a catch. He had already dated Kate Fall, his former CRD comrade, when, in July, George Bridges invited a group of friends to a dinner party at his parents’ home in Surrey. Among them were Osborne and a financial analyst named Frances Howell, whose father David had served as a Cabinet member under Margaret Thatcher. They were a pretty pair and formed a connection over dinner as Howell, who yearned to write for a living, found Osborne reading animatedly to her from a newspaper. She was taken by his passion for the life he was building for himself; him by her spark and maturity. Although Osborne harboured a juvenile streak-even challenging another Magdalen alumnus to a wasabi-eating contest at a Japanese restaurant that summer, emerging victorious but doubled-over in agony-he was actually drawn to **“intellectually self-made women”,** says a peer. His female friends, such as the historian Amanda Foreman (Michael Gove’s ex-girlfriend), were **“more Bloomsbury than Knightsbridge.”** Howell was two years older than Osborne and at least as clever. She also had an even wider circle of friends, including Catherine Ostler, a former flatmate who would go on to edit Tatler, and Simone Finn, now a special adviser in the government and (also) a one-time girlfriend of Michael Gove, Osborne’s future Cabinet colleague. Osborne and Howell began dating seriously. Within two years, they would marry…On 4 April 1998 Osborne married Frances Howell. The wedding took place in St Margaret’s Church, next to Westminster Abbey. This ancient grandeur then gave way to the most modern of receptions at the newly revived Oxo Tower on the South Bank, then one of London’s more modish venues. The event was a vast affair replete with politcos, but Osborne’s best man was his old university friend Peter Davies, who had worked alongside the bride at Mercury Asset Management. Independent-minded and stunningly successful in her own right as an author, she remains about as far removed from the caricature of a Tory wife as a woman can be. **“Frances helped George come into his own”** says a friend of the couple, who testifies that she shimmered more natural confidence than Osborne at the time of their marriage.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

**_What did you think of Alastair Campbell’s diaries?_ **

_Someone gave me a copy and I dipped in just to have a look, and you can tell if you are going to like it, and I thought I am going to hate this. It’s frenetic but not very interesting. Alan Clark’s diaries are very funny and rather under-read and very insightful. Campbell’s are not. Reading them is like gulping a triple espresso, it’s all so frenetic and I didn’t think I would enjoy it. But someone in my office said you should read it as they went through so many of the same issues that we did._

**_They are totally fascinating, rather brilliant, even though everyone and their mother has queued up to take a kick at him. They are just written in a very fast-paced tabloid manner. You don’t warm to him, not at all, but they are obviously fascinating…_ **

_I knew Campbell when he was at the Mirror; he was a political hack. In the press conference during the 1992 general election it was like having a member of the Labour Party come and try and disrupt your conference, and afterwards he would pin you against the wall and ask you all the hostile questions. He was a partisan, he was not a political journalist. So he was much better in the partisan job than he was as a journalist, but I think he pushed everything too far, the bullying, the hectoring.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_Comparions between Cameron and Blair can be misleading but it is striking how similar is the make-up of their inner teams. Blair had a marketing guru, Philip Gould, a journalist, Alastair Campbell, and the other leading young star of his intake, Gordon Brown. Cameron has a marketing guru, Hilton, a journalist, Gove, and the other young star of his intake, Osborne, who might also be said to perform the role as the Tories Peter Mandelson.- Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Westminster and Whitehall were virtually suspended in anticipation of Tony Blair’s departure as Prime Minister, which came on 27 June (2007). After his final statement in the Commons, MPs broke convention by standing and applauding him on his way out. Cameron waved to his backbenchers to join in but Osborne did not need the invitation. His political career had taken place almost entirely under Blair’s dominating shadow. By 2007, lots of Tories admired Blair-Gove had **“come out”** in a Times column in 2003, Cameron was his self-described **“heir”** in 2005-but Osborne’s ardour was older and deeper. He referred to him in private as **“the master** ” and even, during Duncan-Smith’s stewardship of the party, **“our real leader.” -**George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Over at the Treasury, the Chancellor convened a council of war with the two Eds, Sue Nye and Spencer Livermore. Brown asked apprehensively: **“Where are we going with this?”** Balls argued: **“We have to push this. Blair is never going to go. He has to be pushed. You mustn’t be weak. You’ve been weak for too long.”** Brown was still wary: **“I’m not going to go somewhere when I can’t see where it will end.”** Balls was aggressive: “ **It never goes anywhere, because you’re never willing to do anything.”**_

_Wednesday morning’s press reported this as the final showdown for Blair. At a quarter to eight that morning, Prime Minister and Chancellor had a face-to-face confrontation in Number 10. Blair_ **_“just knew it was Gordon behind it. It was all Gordon’s people.”_ ** _The two-hour encounter was one of the rawest of the many vicious struggles over the years. Blair expressed fury about the coup and Brown’s failure to condemn it. He had already told him he was going next summer. Why was that not good enough? It was not good enough, responded Brown, because Blair had broken so many promises before. When Blair directly accused him of being behind the plot, Brown denied it. But he also made it clear he would not lift a finger to stop it unless a list of demands was met. He wanted a public declaration by Blair that he would hand over power. He sought to be effective co-premier in the interim. He wanted a gag put on Byers and Milburn. **“I don’t control them”**_ _said Blair. **“I can’t stop them speaking.”** Brown added a further demand: a guarantee that Blair would arrange **“a clear run”** by preventing anyone else from the Cabinet competing for the leadership. Blair protested that he couldn’t stop other people standing and this sort of behaviour made a contest more likely. Angrily, Brown asked: “ **Who do you think is better than me? Do you think there is anyone who is better than me?”** John Reid was **“far too right-wing.”** Alan Johnson was **“a lightweight.”** David Miliband was much too young. Was Blair saying, Brown demanded, that any of them was better qualified to become Prime Minister? This face-off came to an end without resolving anything. Talking about it afterwards to close allies, Blair described this confrontation with Brown as **“ghastly”** and **“terrible”** and told them that **“he kept shouting at me that I’d ruined his life.”**_

_Though the Chancellor denied any involvement in the coup, the confidence and belligerence with which he behaved suggested to Blair that Brown knew that further attacks were planned. On both sides of the divide, it is agreed that **“Gordon said something that was interpreted as a threat.”** Brown returned to the Treasury and gathered his inner circle in his private lounge area, also known as **“the sofa room.”** Spencer Livermore, Ed Miliband and Sue Nye discussed what had passed between him and Blair. Ed Balls then came in looking excited. In his hand was a resignation letter he had drafted for Tom Watson. Brown asked: **“What is this? What are you doing?”** Balls responded: “ **Why would I not be doing this? It’s the obvious thing to do.”** Ed Miliband was taken aback. **“Where’s this going?”** he asked, unconvinced that it would end well. **“What is your next move?”** He turned to Brown: **“We have to be very careful.”** Brown was, as ever, torn between his craving to bring down Blair and his fear of the consequences of being seen with the dagger in his hand. He said he needed time to think. Balls replied bluntly: **“It’s too late. It’s all in place. It’s all going to happen.”** Tom Watson quit the Government at 11.12 that morning.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_It was not the media nor the Tories nor the voters who did for him. Tony Blair’s premiership was brought to a premature termination by his own party. Many of them, if not most, were relieved that he was leaving. What was slightly ominous for Labour was that the Conservatives were even gladder to see the back of the man who had beaten the Tories three times in a row. David Cameron and George Osborne watched Blair’s final conference speech on television. They were awestruck. Cameron remarked soon afterwards: **“I must be one of the few people left in the country who still thinks Tony Blair is a brilliant politician.”** Osborne texted a friend: **“Thank God he’s going.”** -The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Ed, says a friend, **“was feeling a bit more confident during the Budget. He was up against Osborne, not Cameron. I’m not saying he’s scared of Cameron but Ed sees himself as a much politician and debater than Osborne.”** Going up against Cameron, says the friend, is much harder. In fact, Ed later told an aide that he could see the frustration and irritation in the Prime Minister’s eyes as he taunted the Chancellor over the 50p tax cut, which only spurred him on.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of The Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_For once I had a perfectly nice and civilised chat with Cherie, in which we both lamented how much of our time we spent having to talk to TB in his underwear... The reality was that TB was making a big impact though, and the Japanese saw in TB a very new and attractive kind of leader. I wondered if they would have felt the same if they had seen him later, sitting in his bedroom at the residence, wearing nothing but his underpants and an earthquake emergency helmet which we all had in our rooms, pretending to speak Japanese….-“23 rd April 1995-5th January 1996”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_I got a message to go and see TB before I was even up. He was in the bath, and said he was worried. I knew he was worried anyway because he was playing the fool the whole time, putting on a thick Irish accent, pretending he was a newsreader announcing that Cherie was going to become a Protestant and he was going to speak with an Irish accent as part of a deal to secure peace in NI.-“8 th April 1998” The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_Up to see TB in the flat. Another Austin Powers moment. Yellow/green underpants and that was it. I said what a prat he looked. He said I was just jealous- **how many prime ministers have got a body like this?-“** 5th April 2002” The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Four: The Burden Of Power: Countdown To Iraq: 2001-2003, Alastair Campbell_

_I went out for a run and bumped into Andrew Adonis on the Heath who said what about Alan Johnson or David Miliband as next leader? His worry was that GB would never change. He felt we were all sleepwalking towards something we knew was likely to be a disaster. We had been ground down by him. He felt both AJ and DM were possibles but that neither filled the gap completely and while that was the case GB would exploit it. I also bumped into George Osborne who was out with his family. They had been seeing friends on the other side of the Heath. His wife said she would love to live there. Osborne said it had been a crazy week, that (David) Davis just blew it **. He made the oldest mistake in the book-believed his own propaganda, got complacent, got exposed as second rate, and Cameron moved in where the gaps were.** He said DD had very little goodwill in the bank so when he slipped, the tendency of the majority was to push him down rather than help hold him up. Cameron had spoken well and he related more to the Tory grassroots than Davis realised. I said I was reading all the stuff saying Osborne was the brains of the operation and I was studying him closely so we could work out how to destroy him. He laughed, then said **“You should destroy GB-it’d be easier because he gives his destroyers so much help.”** I said so how is it being his shadow? He rolled his eyes. **We are lower than vermin,** he said. It was a perfectly friendly talk, a mix of banter and serious chat. He warned me not to underestimate Cameron, said there was a lot more to him than the posh boy thing. Osborne’s wife seemed very friendly as well. He was clearly very cocky, and I sensed they felt last week had been a big staging moment for them. He said they had learned an awful lot from watching how we did things, and reading anything they could, and he felt I was making a mistake if I thought Cameron lacked either the toughness or the strategic mind. He said they both talked and strategised all the time, and unlike TB-GB they were genuine friends not rivals. I said so were they once. He said **yes, but I didn’t think I should go for the leadership, because I know David will do it better.-“** 10th October 2005” The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_One evening in the week before we came home we went for dinner at the Senes and I texted Peter M. After chatting a bit re Propiac, where he had once come on holiday with us when the boys were small, he said George Osborne was at the next table in the taverna in Corfu. I said tell him sometimes things go to those who don’t deserve it. He did so and Osborne said simply **“GB.”-“** 20th August 2008” The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Had a little chat with Osborne downstairs. The guys with me said he was shaking when I went over to him. I quite liked Osborne actually. Yes a Tory toff but he was very political and he really knew what he thought whereas I’m not sure that Cameron did…George was pushing it a bit when he said it was a clear win for DC but there you go.-“Thursday 23 rd April 2010”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Brown must have sensed the problem (of Ed Balls’ behaviour), even if he did not know about the briefing directly. Why did he not respond, and castigate Balls? Undeniably Balls was a deeply valued adviser. His intellect and grasp of politics and economics were unrivalled among his peers. As one senior official in the Children’s Department comments, **“He could focus for twelve hours at a time, with a level of intensity unmatched by anyone else in the government. It was incredible to watch.”** But Brown’s relationship with his senior lieutenant was far more complex than that. In their time at the Treasury together, as their political journeys had developed, they had become increasingly co-dependent. **“Ed compensated for Gordon’s lack of intellectual confidence by being decisive”** says one long-standing colleague. **“His all-encompassing certainty became a crutch for Brown for his own intellectual and psychological insecurities.”** In the bitter atmosphere of the Blair years that had led to a dangerous, spiralling dynamic. Brown **“contracted out to Balls his evaluation of people”** , says one Treasury official, and Balls thought Blair little better than an imbecile. In those difficult years while Brown waited desperately for power, Balls had protected him from attacks, and Brown remained deeply grateful. An aide who worked with both men at the Treasury says: “ **Ed came to personify “Bad Gordon.” But he didn’t just reflect the bad Gordon: he exaggerated it.”** The hope had been that, with Blair gone, Balls would operate differently. By the time he arrived in Number 10, Brown’s relationship with his young adviser had come to diminish them both. **“Gordon became far too reliant on Balls, and often did not trust his own judgement without him. It paralysed him”** says one close colleague. For Balls himself, the legacy would be unhelpful. In those early years at the Treasury, he had the potential to become a major presence in the early twenty-first-century political landscape, a figure of almost Disraelian brilliance and effectiveness. In the event, the methods he practised under Brown lost him friends across the party. One can only speculate as to whether Balls would have developed in the same way had his political destiny not been so irrevocably hitched to that of Brown, and whether he would have proved more successful in his 2010 run for the Labour leadership. It was a tragedy that he was so overwhelmingly influenced by just one mentor. By the time he tried to strike out and become his own man, as a Cabinet Minister, his personal traits were too deeply engrained.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_Overall, of course, as has been much discussed and documented, including by Blair himself in his 2010 memoir, relations between the Blair and Brown camps were poor-and had been since Granita._ **_“From day one, it was terrible”_ ** _Jonathan Powell, Blair’s former chief of staff, has said. Brown behaved as if he was a co-equal to the Prime Minister, dominating the Whitehall machine and, through his control of the purse strings, controlling almost every aspect of domestic policy. The New Labour government was a dual premiership; in the words of Brown’s former permanent secretary Andrew Turnbull:_ **_“There were Tony’s subjects and there were Gordon’s subjects. Tony did foreign affairs, Northern Ireland and education. Gordon did overseas development and welfare.”_ ** _The tensions between the two camps weren’t eased when, in 1998, a senior member of the Blair entourage-widely alleged at the time to be Blair’s director of communications Alastair Campbell-described the Chancellor as having_ **_“psychological flaws”_ ** _, in a conversation with The Observer’s Andrew Rawnsley, who would anatomise the Blair-Brown wars-or _ **_“the TB-GBs”_ ** _, as insiders referred to it-in his books, Servants Of The People and The End Of The Party….Balls, on the other hand, is accused by one of Blair’s close officials of showing _ **_“complete contempt for Tony. He would just lay into Tony at meetings.”_ ** _(It is a charge that Balls has flatly denied.)- Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

 _They (the Brownites) would also turn on their own. Michael Wills, the Labour MP for Swindon, was a long-standing friend and ally of Brown. He nevertheless became the target of press attacks when he fell out with Ed Balls. It was Balls who was viewed with most suspicion inside Number 10. **“He was regarded as the chief stormtrooper of the Brownite shock troops”**_ _says a member of the Cabinet. Jonathan Powell believed that Balls **“egged on”** Brown to attack Blair because of his frustration that his own ambitions were impeded. Balls, an undoubtedly clever man, rarely deigned to mask his view that Blair was an intellectual lightweight. **“Tony would be speaking at a meeting and Ed would sit behind Gordon whispering in his ear. He had complete contempt for Tony. He would just lay into Tony at meetings.”** In the words of one of the Chancellor’s inner circle, **“Ed was always trying to bring our day closer.”** On the account of another, Brown’s relentless demands for Blair to give a handover date were partly driven by Balls, who would **“guilt trip”** Brown about his failure to force out their rival. **“Why are you being so weak?”** Balls would taunt Brown. **“Gordon would be cowed and feel he was letting us down by not fighting harder to get it.”** -The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

 _He wanted me to make another effort to work closely with GB and his people. I had probably gone a bit too far with Sarah and should never have said I thought Ed should go as well as Charlie. TB said that was not a very wise thing to say, because GB believed now I was doing him in on a daily basis, systematically. I said that was ridiculous, and showed how off-balance GB was. He said that was no longer the point. He also said the problem with_ **_“psychological flaws”_ ** _was its’ brutal truth, which is why it hurt him so much. Then he said, **“But I’m worried, Ali.”**_ _He was the one person who called me Ali when he was being serious. He said there had to be a sense of the two of them coming together after a difficult phase.-“Saturday 21 st February 1998”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_When I was about half an hour from Yeovil I got a text message from Julian Astle who had been watching Danny’s statement in the commons **-“Whose idea was that? Everything that is confused, unconvincing and embarrassing about differentiation in one toe-curling piece of botched theatre. Virtually empty Chamber. Overwhelming levels of barracking from Labour. A rebuke from the Speaker for abusing ministerial privileges and wasting the House’s time. And the scorn of the commentariat for not knowing whether we supported or opposed the Budget. Apart from that, a triumph.”** Oh dear…The media coverage of Danny’s Liberal Democrat “Budget” is pretty awful. A lot of piss-taking in the sketch columns.-19th-20th March 2015, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Friends say that while he **“enjoyed what London has to offer”,** he was **“never at the bacchanalian end of things, no way.”** The scurrilous speculation misses a more interesting quirk in Osborne’s character that had been evident since his time in the Bullingdon Club: he did not appear to be a natural libertine so much as a rather straight individual who sometimes wished he was. Quieter, coyer, and less blue-blooded than many in his gang, he often found himself slipping to the sidelines. Friends found him **“endearingly stiff”** and racked with a **“shyness that manifested as exaggerated confidence.”** (Natalie) Rowe’s own account of this period, given to the press again in 2011, has him as a well-meaning wallflower. Those who knew both Osborne and Cameron in their twenties theorise that they were actually social opposites: Osborne a retiring soul who liked to be thought of as wild, and Cameron an innately laddish character who was happy to be considered inoffensively middle-of-the-road… **”Yachtgate”** exhibited Osborne’s personal foibles. His attraction to glamour and power, his addiction to the “game” of political intrigue, his occasionally sybaritic lifestyle-all these dangerous and, ironically, Mandelsonian quirks had long been known to insiders, but were now unmistakeable to a wider audience too. If he joined the Bullingdon Club out of a restless desire to belong to the loftiest social circles, perhaps he boarded Deripaska’s yacht for much the same reason. Although Cameron was another Buller man, it was hard to imagine him craving glitzy company in quite the same way. In the aftermath of Yachtgate, (Andy) Coulson told a colleague that the difference between Osborne and Cameron could be captured by one thing **: “Dave would never have got on that boat.” -**George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_I bump into Chris Martin. We find a quiet room to chat about how everything is going. Towards the end of our discussion, Chris moves into more sensitive territory. He wants to know what plans the Camerons have made to **“move out”** if the result goes the wrong way. We have, in fact, given this some thought. A removal van has been booked under another name. The children have put their school uniforms, a few summer clothes, and their favourite toys to one side of their bedrooms. I tell Chris this-and emphasise that it is top secret.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_I bounded up the staircase and into the flat. Inside, Sam was getting the kids ready for school. Blue bags still filled the hallway, ready for our potential move. But now I knew we were staying put, while the rest of British politics moved around us.-For The Record, David Cameron_

*

_Certainly, she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener in a day: from the hour she came downstairs till the hour she went to bed, we had not a minute’s security that she wouldn’t be in mischief. Her spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always going-singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild, wicked slip she was-but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish; and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her…In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear slapping and ordering; and so I let her know. …His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him; she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; turning Joseph’s religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most-showing how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff than his kindness; how the boy would do her bidding in anything and his only when it suited his inclination._

_After behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it up at night._

_“Nay, Cathy” the old man would say, “I cannot love thee, thou’rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God’s pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee!”_

_That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her faults and beg to be forgiven. -Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte_

_""You really hate me, don't you?" she said._

_"Even more than you hate me."_

_"Not possible."_

_"Try me."_

_Then her hand was on my thigh, and she was crawling up me like I was a tree" -Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_I think Coley got pretty good at convincing herself that what the two of us were doing with each other night after night after hot, still, big-sky-Montana night was just some bound-to-happen-in-college-experimentation thing come early. And I tried hard not to let on that I knew otherwise, or at least desperately hoped for otherwise. -The Miseducation Of Cameron Post, Emily M Danforth_

* * *

The first time George stood up at the dispatch box, he’d nearly thrown up over it. Despite this, he’d turned it into one of his more successful dispatch box outings.

He likes to remind himself of this every so often these days when he stands up and nearly gets blasted backwards by the sheer wave of noise from the opposite benches. But today, instead, his eyes move up to the glass barrier above the Opposition benches heads, roaming along until he spots the three children, Liberty’s dark head still as she leans forward, her eyes fixed on her father. Her blue eyes set off a spark in his chest, as she stares at him, gaze hot and fierce with love.

George gives her a wink in the split-second before he gets to his feet, something soaring in his chest.

“Mr Deputy Speaker, today I report on a Britain that is growing, creating jobs and paying its’ way-“

* * *

“We took difficult decisions in the teeth of Opposition and it worked-“

“This is going to last longer” Nancy reminds Luke, already curling her legs up underneath her on the bench. Her head rests partly on his elbow, her feet pressing into Liberty’s thigh.

Liberty wriggles forward to the edge of the seat, stroking Nancy’s ankle absent-mindedly. Her attention is all focused on her father.

“Five years ago, our economy had suffered a collapse greater than almost any country-“

Liberty’s always kept her eyes trained on her father-even as a little girl, when they lived in their old house in Notting Hill, she’d sat twined on his lap while he wrote out plans of speeches before breakfast, sometimes typing on his laptop at the table, which Mummy didn’t always like, even though Mummy used a laptop all the time for her books.** Liberty used to twine around him protectively, ducking her head under his chin, feeling him press kisses, half on her hair and half on her ear, while she huddled into his chest, feeling his heart beat hard.

“Today, I can confirm that in the last year we have grown faster than any other major advanced economy in the world…”

Time passes, more slowly than the children would like. It’s not like when Uncle David and Ed Miliband stand up to speak, and there’s a constant back and forth to follow, their heads moving with the words like spectators at a tennis match-Dad has to speak for longer, though occasionally the tide of noise from the benches directly below the children will reach a swell and the Deputy Speaker-a man Liberty and Nancy are both aware their fathers vastly prefer to the small, squat main Speaker, who always looks like his eyes are going to disappear when he smiles-will tell them all to shut up in far politer a way, than Liberty would have. Liberty amuses herself as the time goes by, by watching her father. Last year, her mother had been next to her and she’d curled up with her head on her lap, watching him through half-closed eyes. This year, Nancy’s the one curled up, and so Liberty sits on the edge of her seat, keeping her gaze fixed on her father, occasionally letting it wander to the faces of some of the others. But she can’t see any of his opponents-they’re all out of sight below her, sputters of noise the only indication for when her father has hit a direct blow, tucked away in his words.

* * *

“And, Mr Deputy Speaker, we could not let the 600th anniversary of Agincourt pass without commemoration-“

“Well, that was a bloody nightmare” Danny-not the Danny sitting on the benches behind him-had said, when George had walked into the office after a day away back in 2001.

“What, living without me?” George had stretched out in the leather-backed chair, his feet already reaching for the table in front of him with an attempted air of insouciance, only slightly ruined when his feet nearly slid off the edge, almost sending him onto the floor. “I don’t blame you.”

Danny, taking in with a practiced eye George’s attempt at righting himself, faint hint of colour appearing in his pale cheeks underneath his dark curls, now slightly unruly, had smiled only very slightly.

“Anyway, you’re right” Danny had said, deliberately affecting a casual air, watching George out of the corner of his eye. “William got hammered yesterday. Blair made mincemeat out of him. Even he commented on it after PMQs.”

George, who would have already been preening himself inwardly on this proof of his talents, at this point came very close to soaring up to the ceiling.

“Did he?” he’d said casually, examining his fingernails and affecting an entirely disinterested air, punctuated only by the slight delighted wriggle in the seat that betrayed him.

Danny had, in a moment of kindness greater than any George would believe himself capable of, pretended not to notice the wriggle.

“Yep. He said William seemed off his game. Told him maybe it was because his best writer was away. He said he could tell.”

George’s heart had wanted to leap out of his chest and do cartwheels across the ceiling. Instead, he’d stared very hard at his fingers and tried not to let an insane grin spread across his face, and told himself that it was entirely for the fact his skills were indispensable.

But that was a large part of it. George is sharply aware of the fact that too many people would laugh if told that empathy is one of his greatest skills, but that doesn’t make it less true. It’s just not the kind of empathy they’re thinking of. It’s like an antennae, almost a sense of roving, scanning an opponent for their weakness, feeling it out through wandering thoughts based partly on calculation and partly on a strange, hungry instinct that’s reared in him since he was a child, in a St Paul’s playground needing a way to survive, and knowing, even then, without needing to be told, that he needed to find a different way from others, that it wouldn’t be easy being him.

“Now, the Battle of Agincourt is celebrated by Shakespeare as a victory secured by a band of brothers-“

He glances away from Miliband, no longer needing to practice, the gestures coming by instinct over years of honing. As does the touch of cruelty to the words, the curl of his voice.

“Which is sadly not an option available to the party opposite-“

The waves of laughter unroll slowly around him. George lets the words sink into the air for a moment, doesn’t need to glance at Miliband. Knows by the same instinct that they’ll linger longer for him.

“Seriously” Danny had said that day, years ago, clapping George on the shoulder with something that was admiration but had a touch of affection too, and a more tender affection than George would have expected, at that. “I don’t know how you do it.”

George lets his eyes linger, taking in the mark of his words still quivering in the air. And smiles.

* * *

David should be thinking about a lot of things, but not Ed Miliband’s suit.

David doesn’t particularly think about suits for himself-Samantha’s usually the one who hands them to him through curtains or doors of changing rooms, after they’ve been vetted by Kate and Gabby. But it had been an offhand comment by George that had sparked the thought, when Miliband had stood up and David’s eyes had instantly dropped to his suit.

(Or that’s what David tells himself, when his eyes had traced Ed’s hips without him even noticed and he’d yanked his gaze down too quickly, a flame of sensation stirring in his groin.)

“Richard James” George had commented, leaning back in a swivel chair this morning, still scribbling notes down the list of potential questions. “He wears the same as you.”

David tells himself that that’s what he’s thinking of as his eyes skim up and down the fit of Miliband’s suit, and wonders if it’s the same, except in size, as his own.

* * *

Even for Nancy and Liberty, loyal as they are, the Budget Speech can drag on. Luke pays a little more attention but in truth, for all three of them most of it travels over their heads. Their understanding of it is mainly punctuated by the cheers from their father and godfather’s side, and centres more around willing those behind him to cheer louder than the people sitting below them. Nancy’s position hasn’t changed much from her head nestling into Luke’s shoulder, her Nike sneakers occasionally jutting into Liberty’s jeans. Liberty, though, keeps her ears pricked for anything that sounds familiar, that she or the others may have heard round the dinner table back up in the Downing Street flats.

“And we will also, Mr Deputy Speaker, invest in what is known as the “internet of things-“”

Liberty leans forward slightly, letting her feet touch the floor. This time last year when she came to the Budget, she wasn’t quite tall enough to reach it.

“This is the next stage of the information revolution, connecting up everything from urban transport to medical devices to household appliances-“ Liberty notices her father’s eyes dart up and, even though there isn’t a trace of a smile on his face, she knows, on some instinct, like feeling her way down the landing in the dark, that he’s about to say something he’s been looking forward to.

“So should, to use a completely ridiculous example, someone have two kitchens-“ Her father pauses for the slightest of seconds. “They’ll be able to control both fridges from the same mobile phone-“

His last word is almost drowned out by the roars of laughter below. Liberty’s own joins them, her own words from two nights before bouncing back to her, as her father’s lip twitches in his familiar smirk, his eyes darting upwards for less than a second, but his gaze still meeting her own.

* * *

“Mr Deputy Speaker, never has the gap between the Chancellor’s rhetoric and the reality of people’s lives been greater than it was today-“

Nancy wriggles to the edge of her seat. If she peers down, nose pressed firmly against the glass, she can just glimpse the top of Mr Ed Miliband’s head. Despite the fierceness with which she’d loved the exchanges between him and her father earlier, which had both surprised and thrilled her, Nancy is less rattled by seeing her father fend off barbs in the Chamber, partly because of his own imperviousness to them, and perhaps partly because it’s such a frequent part of the job. Luke and Liberty, however, don’t have to witness their father confronted as frequently, and while Luke is more sanguine about the situation, Liberty’s eyes are already pinned protectively on her father.

“It’s a budget people won’t believe from a government they don’t trust-and this Chancellor has failed the working families of Britain-“

Nancy can’t see Mr Ed Miliband’s face but even she can tell from his voice that his words are less assured than Uncle George’s a few moments earlier. Her own father’s were smoother, easier than both of them, but Nancy senses, without having to be told, that it wouldn’t have mattered how long they rehearsed-even if they imitated his tone word by word-the same atmosphere wouldn’t have graced either of the other men’s speeches.

She remembers being carried to one of the windows in Downing Street when she was younger, when one of the protest marches was going on outside. Dad had kissed her head, let her wave at the protesters, though none of them could see her. “They’ve got Daddy on a lot of signs” he’d told her, kissing her temple as she giggled. “You can pick your favourite.”

So Nancy rests her forehead on the glass, Mr Ed Miliband’s words washing over her. Her father never seems threatened by him, sometimes not even looking up from his papers, and so Nancy isn’t, either.

“He chose-he chose to make a number of references-he chose to make a number of references to me today-“

 _I_ did, thinks Nancy, with a fierce flame of pride.

“So let me-let me-let me just tell him, Mr Deputy Speaker, we’re not going to take lessons on fairness from the trust fund Chancellor and the Bullingdon Club Prime Minister-“

Nancy laughs because her father laughs too. Luke raises a hand, with a sardonic curl of the lip that would make his father proud. Liberty’s eyes narrow, staring down at Mr Ed Miliband’s head through the glass. Nancy guesses any hint of fondness for Mr Ed Miliband has just rapidly dissipated.

But when she looks at Dad and Uncle George, they’re laughing, so Nancy nudges Liberty’s arm, and points, so that Liberty’s gaze is fixed on her father and not the man below them.

* * *

_“Daddy!”_

David feels himself nearly crumple with relief and love slamming hard into his chest at the sight of Nancy barrelling down the stairs towards him. She throws herself into his arms with the force of a hurricane, her ponytail coming loose. David hugs her to his chest, needing more than anything to root himself in the feeling of one of his children, wrapped around him, their little voices chattering in his ear, grounding him to earth.

“I did all right, then?” he asks his daughter, making an effort to keep his voice cheerful and light, over the strange ripping feeling in his chest, as though it’s wrenching itself in half.

“You smashed him, Daddy” Nancy tells him, confidently, moving back, though her cheek still rests against his chest, his hand stroking her hair, threading it between his fingers. Next to him, David becomes aware that George is receiving a similar treatment from Liberty, who’s leaning into her father’s side, her dark locks braided between his fingers.

Nancy’s head presses into his side, peering round his hip, and David turns round to see Miliband standing behind him.

“Oh.” He half-disengages Nancy, then pulls her closer, then pulls away again. “Um-Miliband. Hi. You-um-“

Miliband is just looking at him, his eyes big and dark, and David hears himself stuttering. “Um-“ He glances back at Nancy, then at George, who’s watching the encounter with a sharpness to his hazel eyes that suggests he’s about to say something waspish or is thinking something waspish or, most likely, both. “I-er-I need to-“

Nancy, for her part, is also eyeing Ed Miliband. Rather than looking away or stepping back, she tilts her chin up defiantly, as though daring him to comment on her remark.

Miliband, who hasn’t looked at David or George, nods awkwardly at the children. “Hello.”

Nancy doesn’t look away from him, extending her hand. “Hi.”

David tries not to pay attention to the way his insides squeeze fondly at the sight of Miliband taking his daughter’s hand and shaking it very earnestly, despite the number of times they’ve met before. “Hello, Nanthy.”

Nancy looks him straight in the eye, chin jutting out proudly. “My daddy smashed you.”

David sees a wince flicker across Miliband’s face for half a second, and feels all his insides squeeze. The sight of George tilting his face into Liberty’s hair, clearly hiding a smirk, doesn’t help.

“That’s-“ He pulls her back into his side. “Not really called for, Nance-“

“Why?” Nancy asks, oblivious or willing to be to the way her father’s surreptitiously trying to cover her mouth, pressing her face into his side. “It’s not as if he doesn’t know it happened.”

David, for a long moment, isn’t sure if he wishes to evaporate or sink through the floor.

“I-“ He forces himself to meet Miliband’s eyes over Nancy’s head, feeling his own cheeks burn. “I-ah-I-forgot-I needed to see you.”

Miliband nods once. He’s schooled his features into a carefully impassive mask, but something in David’s chest aches at the sight, knowing without knowing how it knows that it’s an effort for Miliband. He’s reminded of Nick’s words, and his chest tightens even more.

“Well-I was thinking-ah-I was going to take the kids down for lunch in the canteen, but-um-“ David glances at George. “George, can you-ah-take them-while I-Miliband and I-we-“ He can feel his face getting warmer by the second. George is giving him a long look, his face carefully cleared of expression, a sure sign that he’s thinking very hard.

Nancy wriggles, pressed into his side. “Dad, you’re crushing me.”

David shakes his head. “Sorry-“ He releases his daughter, who shoots him an aggrieved look over her slightly flushed cheeks. “I-“

“Yes” Miliband says abruptly, as though having come to a sudden decision. “I can-I won’t keep you, but-“

“Oh-“ David blinks, feeling somehow slightly dazed. “Oh, that’s-all right. Yes, if you just-“

He nods at George, turning to Nancy. “I’ll be down in a minute, Nance, OK? I just need to have a quick word with Mr Miliband, and then-“

Nancy gives him a long look that’s startlingly reminiscent of Samantha and something else David can’t quite recall, but she says “OK” and squeezes her arms around his waist affectionately before she joins George, who’s still watching David thoughtfully, an arm around Liberty’s shoulders.

David raises a hand to him. “I’ll see you in-“

“Don’t worry” George says, a dry edge to the words. “Take as much time as you like.”

Something in his voice makes David’s cheeks feel warm, his hands feel uncharacteristically fumbling as he turns to Miliband. “Right, then-“

They don’t talk as they make their way to the House of Commons office reserved for the Prime Minister. David’s too busy suddenly trying to remember how much time they’ve got in between now and the dissolution of Parliament, thinking, almost frantically, that it must be longer than just over a week, that there must be time in between that they can squeeze out together-

“Miliband-“ He finds himself having to clear his throat, as he stands aside, showing Miliband into his office. “I-Miliband-“

The door closes behind him, and then suddenly his back’s pushed into it, and Miliband’s kissing him, kissing him hard and with such ferocity that he’s pressed up against David, their legs tangled together, so that for a wonderful, dizzying moment of heat there’s no inch of the front of David’s body that’s not touching Ed Miliband.

* * *

Cameron just _lets him._ His mouth just opens in a gasp and Ed dimly hears his back slam against the door and then he just _presses_ into his body and just lets Ed kiss him, lets him knot his fingers into his hair and tug and his fingers wrap tightly, almost bruisingly, around Cameron’s wrist, force him back against the door, almost biting his lip in a vicious pull of his mouth as they break apart.

 _“Ow-“_ Cameron’s hand brushes his mouth, with a look of something that could be aggrieved in his eyes, but a touch of something else too, as he stares at Ed. “Jesus, Miliband.”

Ed waits, something in Cameron’s words telling him to test the silence. Cameron’s eyes hold his, something else suddenly hot and taut between them.

“Vicious little thing, aren’t you.” Cameron’s words don’t sound angry. In fact, they sound almost approving and something about his gaze sends heat creeping down Ed’s back, up his cheeks, makes him stare back, his own gaze hotter, harder.

He looks away, clears his throat, struggling to assemble his words into something resembling businesslike. “You can have a word with your Chancellor” he manages, his voice only very slightly higher than usual.

“And what would that be about?”

“You can tell him to leave the jokes.” Ed snaps the words out more than he meant to.

“Oh, you mean the kitchens?” David grins. “They were Nancy’s.”

Ed blinks. “What?”

“And Liberty’s.” Off Ed’s bewildered look, David laughs. “They were looking at the Budget drafts over dinner last night. Nancy was the one who came up with you not knowing where your next meal was coming from.”

Ed opens and closes his mouth and then looks away, his lips compressing tightly.

“Miliband?”

Ed shakes his head. He can’t explain why his hands have curled into fists in his pockets, the strange wrench of betrayal in his chest. All he can tell is that he feels cheated, angry, and that the look on Cameron’s face is making it worse.

“Anyway, it’s hardly worse than anything you’ve said about me” Cameron says, mildly enough, but with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “It’s pretty bloody rich of you to complain.”

Ed knows he’s right, which makes it worse.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t be telling me what you don’t want me to do” Cameron tells him, his voice singsong, and teasing. Ed keeps his face angled away from him.

“You should have told me you were bringing your kids” he says, with an attempt at steadying his voice.

“Why, because you’d have gone easier on me?”

“No.” Ed gives him a quelling look. “I still should have known.”

“Why?”

Ed humps a shoulder. He isn’t really sure himself; just knows that somehow, the fact he’s been at Cameron’s house, eaten breakfast with his kids, is giving him the odd feeling that he should somehow have known that Cameron was bringing them. Or one of them, anyway.

Cameron sighs, his hand settling on Ed’s shoulder, a warm weight that Ed likes a little too much. He waits for Cameron to pull back, but instead, Cameron’s hand just lingers there, fingers squeezing gently.

“What do you want anyway?” he manages to say, abruptly, telling himself to get to his feet, but not quite managing it.

Cameron’s eyes flicker for less than a second but he manages to keep holding Ed’s gaze. “I thought we could talk. Since we’re going to be heading our separate ways next week.”

Something squeezes in Ed’s chest and he has to look away this time.

“I see” he says, mainly for something to say. “I-I th-see.”

Cameron takes a seat on the back of the couch next to him, with a little sigh, extending his legs. Ed waits for him to say something, but he’s quiet, and when Ed steals another look at him, his lips are pursed slightly, blue eyes contemplative.

“We-“ He’s planning not to speak first, but something about Cameron’s silence prickles in the back of his mind. “We did th-say-that it’s just a-just a thing to get through, it’s not, it-“ He glances at Cameron.

“And we’re going to be on the campaign trail” he points out, hating the hint of a question in his voice. “We’re not going to be around each other, we’re not going to-to be able to-“

Cameron watches him for a long moment, something caught in his eyes, but then he looks away as Ed meets his gaze. “No, I don’t suppose we will.”

There isn’t any finality in his tone, though. Ed feels something flicker into life in his chest, something sick and hopeful.

“So-“ He waits for Cameron to answer him, to say something more, so that Ed doesn’t feel this weird need to fill the silence. “So, we-what do you want to do?”

Cameron gives an odd movement out of the corner of Ed’s eye, almost like a flinch, but when Ed looks at him, he seems to be struggling to compose his face into a mask and not doing a very good job of it.

“I don’t know” he says, with an attempt at a laugh that doesn’t sound much like one. “I mean-do you-do you want to keep-we’ve got one more week, we-“

The sight of Cameron fumbling over his words isn’t as pleasing as it should be.

“I-we can” Ed says, not really in the mood to note that he’s in no position to describe Cameron as _fumbling_ right now. “I mean, we-we don’t have to-“

He threads his fingers in and out of one another, trying not to measure the distance between Cameron’s leg and his own.

“We don’t have to stop yet” he says, to his own knees, and tries not to feel relieved when he almost feels Cameron’s shoulders deflate in relief next to him.

Cameron’s shoulder bumps his own very lightly, and Ed just knows, without knowing how, that it’s because Cameron doesn’t dare to look at him right now. The thought makes him feel oddly tender, and slowly, following an instinct, he lets his shoulder nestle against Cameron’s, until he feels Cameron’s face tilt to watch his own. Only then does he let his eyes meet Cameron’s, and feel something strange, almost like a gentle touch in his chest, as Cameron’s eyes move to his own mouth.

“Let’th not talk” he hears himself whisper, and he leans in, an inch at a time, to bring his mouth to Cameron’s in a slow, soft, almost trembling kiss.

* * *

Uncle George throws down his biro. Nancy blinks up at him innocently. “You asked us for our thoughts on the Budget.”

Uncle George’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t think we’d cover both sides of a napkin.”

Liberty points at a corner. “You missed the footnote.”

Uncle George’s eyes narrow still further.

“And the Please Turn Over on the top left.”

Both Nancy and Liberty look up at the new voice to see Mr Ed Balls standing behind them. Uncle George’s eyebrows travel up his forehead. “It’s a pity you didn’t show that to your boss.”

“Yeah, where’s Daddy?” Nancy takes another sip of her orange juice. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m under about five orders not to buy you anything from down here, because your dad can’t wait to parade you around the roast dinner of unctuous praise.”

Liberty blinks at him. “Why are you taking me, then?”

Uncle George pauses. “I didn’t want you to miss out.”

“Well, where is Daddy?” says Mr Ed Balls, who’s jerking his head frantically at Uncle George-Nancy thinks it makes him look rather like a chubby bird.

Uncle George’s nose wrinkles. “Please, never say those words again, in any context.”

“I forgot you only say them to Mandelson-“ There’s a thud under the table and Mr Ed Balls hisses. _“Vicious.”_

“If you’re looking for David-“ says Uncle George, with a strange hint of colour in his cheeks. “He’s in a meeting with Miliband, he should be out in a couple of minutes.”

Mr Ed Balls puffs out his cheeks, glances around. “Are you waiting down here?”

Uncle George glances around ostentatiously, then down at himself. “Apparently.”

Mr Ed Balls rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re taking them to stuff down that roast dinner Cameron swallows every Wednesday, I’ll walk up with you so I can grab Ed before he vanishes into his office and sulks like his face is going to fall off.” He glances at the girls, almost as an afterthought. “No offence intended.”

“Is this the roast dinner Dad talks about?” Nancy asks Uncle George, glancing between the two.

“That would be the one.”

Nancy shrugs. “Then it’s fine.”

“Dave wanted us to wait here, but-“ This time, there’s another thud, and Uncle George hisses. Mr Ed Balls’ eyes widen meaningfully. Uncle George looks back, arching his eyebrows. “Next time, just say you want to go up there, you don’t have to _bruise_ me.”

“Oh, don’t be so delicate.” Mr Ed Balls lowers his voice, bending so that his mouth brushes Uncle George’s ear as Nancy gets to her feet. “Bet Mandelson doesn’t say that to you-“

“Shut up, Balls.”

* * *

Ed pulls back slightly, gasping for breath, his nose still pressing into Cameron’s. It bewilders him how he doesn’t have to think when he’s kissing Cameron. He and Justine have never really been the type to sit on a sofa kissing for hours-maybe it’s something that happens, he thinks dazedly, trying to arrange his thoughts, Cameron’s mouth nuzzling his own at the corners, sending a shudder of heat through him, the sensation opening out under his skin, making him want to arch. Maybe your body just gets used to it, he thinks madly, as Cameron’s mouth traces a dizzying path down his jaw and then back to his mouth, maybe that’s why he’s enjoying the warm insides of Cameron’s mouth, the soft stroke of Cameron’s tongue against his own, when by any usual standard, he should find it-

“Wait, w-wait-“ he hears himself murmuring, Cameron’s lips still teasing at his own in a series of quick, soft kisses that make his heartbeat quicken until he has to close his eyes and physically push himself back from Cameron. “I need to-“

“What?” Cameron’s almost as breathless as he is, but even in this state he manages to give Ed a mischievous grin that makes Ed’s heart do a strange swoop in his chest, an expression that makes him look much younger, almost boyish. Ed fights the bizarre urge to nestle his cheek against Cameron’s for a moment.

“We-“ He’s grappling for the words, but all he can think of is that they haven’t talked about the fact there’s only a week to go yet, they haven’t talked about what they’re going to do, they haven’t talked about the fact there’s less than two months and-

“We’ve got a week.” His voice splinters on the last word, more plaintive than he’d like, and heat rushes into his face, making him turn away from Cameron automatically, his mouth working as he struggles with a strange rush of feeling.

Cameron’s hand creeps under his chin, but he doesn’t tilt Ed’s head back towards him. Instead, he just holds his hand there, thumb stroking his cheek.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk” he says, but his voice is much softer than it should be.

Ed shrugs, half-turns towards him, his chin wedging itself in David’s palm, then looks away again. “I don’t. I jutht-we have a week, and we need to-we need to th-sort out how we’re going to-“

He trails off, biting his lip. He and Cameron have ended up sitting on the sofa, after a few minutes of awkwardly leaning against the back of it, Cameron half-steering him, one hand on his elbow and one on his waist, in a way that was strangely possessive and sent a thrill of something through Ed in the press of his grip. A similar shiver goes through him as Cameron’s thumb strokes ever so slightly back and forth over his cheek.

“How we’re going to-“ Cameron’s voice is almost teasing but not quite.

Ed turns into his touch, almost but not quite realising it. David’s thumb is still moving back and forth across his cheek, almost unconsciously. The tip brushes Ed’s mouth ever so slightly every few moments, sending a slow tickle of heat through him. His lips purse very slightly, almost kissing it.

The door opens.

* * *

When Dad comes to the door, Nancy blinks, noticing the fact that his hair’s rumpled, as though he’s been running his fingers through it. Uncle George, who’s just a little ahead of them has gone still, his hand suddenly squeezing Nancy’s shoulder a little too tightly.

“Ow.” Nancy wriggles slightly, and Uncle George lets go of her with a muted apology. But Dad looks away from her, his fingers fiddling with his top button which has come loose, tugging his tie higher.

“Hey, Nance.” Dad smiles, but it looks wobbly, his cheeks rosier than usual. “Ready for lunch?”

Nancy frowns, trying to peer past him. “Where’s Mr Ed Miliband?”

Dad’s arm falls across the doorway, blocking her view. Behind her, Liberty rears up onto her tiptoes, her white headphones spilling over her fingers as she yanks out her phone, despite Uncle George’s hand fastening onto her shoulder.

“He’s-ah-“

Mr Ed Balls emerges from the room behind them. He smiles when he sees Nancy and Liberty, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and it seems to take him a second, as though he’d forgotten they were there. Mr Ed Miliband is behind him. His eyes look bigger, wider, and his gaze darts away from Nancy’s before hers can find his.

“Right” Mr Ed Balls says, a little too brightly, his eyes finding Uncle George’s over Nancy’s head, jaw tightening meaningfully. “Shall we-er-if they’ve-finished-“

Uncle George’s hand flexes slightly on Liberty’s shoulder but otherwise he only, uncharacteristically, nods. Nancy frowns, glancing between them.

“Right.” It’s Mr Ed Miliband’s voice that surprises her, the word suddenly abrupt, as he tugs his tie back into place, heading past Nancy with only a brief nod. Nancy watches him over her shoulder, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

There’s a short silence, broken by Mr Ed Balls letting his hand fall a little too heavily onto Uncle George’s arm. “Well.” His voice, hale and a little too cheerful, falls flat. “We’ll-if you’re-we’ll be-George and I have just got to-“

Uncle George’s eyebrows travel so far up his forehead they almost disappear into his hair-no mean feat, these days-but his voice, when he squeezes Liberty’s shoulder, is something bordering on normal. “Right, I’ll see you in a few minutes if you want to go and get your lunch-“

Liberty says something to him, but Nancy doesn’t catch the words. She’s too busy looking at her father, and suddenly remembering a couple of summers ago, when they’d come back from Cornwall a day earlier than they were meant to, when Dad and Uncle George had been locked in one of his offices with Uncle Nick and Mr Ed Miliband, and they’d been playing in the gardens. Nancy remembers running down the corridor inside Downing Street to fetch something, her shoes clattering across the black-and-white tiled floor, when Dad had stuck his head out of the door to see what was going on, and he’d looked then like he does now, when he’d seen her then, his head sticking out of the room where their meeting was going on, as if she was something he hadn’t expected to see at all, as if one of his worlds had just collided with the other.

* * *

“Don’t tell me what you saw” George says, the moment they get into the tunnel. “Don’t tell me what you saw, don’t tell me what you saw.”

“Fine.” Balls holds his hands up. “Fine, I won’t tell you what I saw-bloody hell, is this the same tunnel Peter took Gordon up when we were doing the bloody negotiations?”*

“I don’t know what tunnels Peter took Gordon up.”

Balls rams an elbow into his chest. George’s hand flies to his chest, with an indignant squawk. “I bruise easily.”

“That is literally the least fucking surprising thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Balls glances at him, as George rubs his chest with an injured look. “Bit of a cheap move to take all your dates to the same mattress, Osborne.”

George’s mouth twitches, even as a hint of colour appears in his cheeks. “If you wanted a date, all you had to do was ask.”

Balls gives him a double-take, before saying “Anyway, never mind what I saw-“

“Of course I mind what you saw, what did you bloody see?”

“I hope you show more commitment to your economic promises than this shows-I thought you wanted it to remain in the collective unconscious-“

“Shut up.”

“I thought you wanted me to tell you-“

“Shut up.”

There’s a huffy silence, which, given the people involved, lasts less than a second.

“Look, I didn’t see anything much” Balls concedes, with an acquiescent sigh, as though this revelation is the biggest favour he could possibly bestow on anyone. “But they were just-“

“What?”

Balls makes an impatient sound. “That’s it. They weren’t doing anything. They just-looked-“

George makes a considerably more impatient sound.

“All right, all right-God, you like to get the job done quickly, don’t you?” Balls flashes him another, slyer look out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t suppose Frances likes that.”

A second later, he receives the much harder ramming of an elbow into his ribs. “Ow!”

He matches George’s aggrieved look from earlier. “I bruise _too.”_

George gives him a puckish smirk, eyes dancing momentarily. “Good.”

Balls shakes his head, muttering venomously. “Aggressive. Pugnacious. Typical Tory.”

“That from the man tagged Brown’s Bruiser is quite a compliment.”

“They looked-rumpled. They were on the sofa and they just looked-they looked-“ Balls shakes his head. “They looked-like they’d been-interrupted.”

George, from looking smug, now looks vaguely ill.

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“Given you told me you didn’t want me to tell you what I’d seen, does that mean you really do want me to finish that sentence-“

“Right now, I don’t want you to finish this one.”

* * *

When her father sits down next to her, his hair’s tidy again and he squeezes an arm around her shoulders, kissing her head. “OK, Nance?”

Nancy nods, mouth full of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Liberty, sitting on her other side, is engaged in an animated conversation with Mr Javid, on the other side of Uncle George, who’d reappeared a few minutes before Dad did, smiling as though nothing had happened. Nancy isn’t entirely sure anything has, isn’t even really aware yet that she’s thinking about it, that those odd few seconds in the corridor, all of the grown-ups slightly frozen, not quite daring to look at each other, is pulling tight like a knot in her mind, where it may jam the sewing machine of her thoughts and snarling the picture of her life she’s been sewing until this moment into something quite different.

Nancy isn’t aware of this, not yet, so she watches Liberty for a moment, before her gaze is pulled back by the sound of someone, an MP whose name she isn’t sure of, saying something almost but not quite braying and loud to her father, slapping him on the back in a way that would have been a little too hard for some people, but not for Nancy’s father. Nancy notices the way her father’s grin doesn’t falter, but that his arm also doesn’t move from her shoulders.

“I’m still rather hurt” Uncle Michael says, from across the table, cutting fastidiously into his roast potato. “That my rap wasn’t used.”

Nancy had been, fleetingly, reminded of the fact that Bea wasn’t here with a stab of guilt. Now, though, she suddenly feels thankful.

“Yeah, well, we couldn’t work it in-“

“I spent a long time on that rap” Uncle Michael says, the fork pointed accusingly across the table. “The scansion and the rhyming was nothing short of exemplary.”

“If you count kitchen as rhyming with _bitchin’”_ says Uncle George, loudly enough for Uncle Michael to hear.

Uncle Michael seems to swell indignantly, but he’s so slight, it doesn’t really make much of a difference.

“Now, Prime Minister-“

Mr Clarke’s chest swells as he pats Daddy on the back. In his case, the effect is much more impressive. “Quite-“

“As long as it didn’t cut into your lunchtime, Ken-“ Dad’s smiling up at him, patting his arm. 

“He’ll have spent it trying to remember how to pay the meter” Uncle George says, but very quietly.

“The kitchen lines will go down well” Uncle Gavin says, pointing a roast potato at Dad approvingly, on the end of his fork. “Even _The Guardian_ were all over that-“

Nancy soaks in the praise for her father as she eats, leaning into his side. She hasn’t forgotten the moment of strangeness in the corridor, but it’s too big for her thoughts at the moment, too wrongly-shaped, like wedging a puzzle piece in where it has no right to be. In a way, perhaps that makes her cleave more tightly to the words of praise from her fathers’ colleagues, the way each of them clearly defers to him in the conversation, their words sometimes curling up into a question as they glance to her father, as though unsure of their own opinion until they’ve received his nod to it. Nancy might not have forgotten that moment in the corridor, but right now, snuggled into the curl of her father’s arm, watching everyone else watch him, she feels the warm, certain power of feeling unfold through them both, that she might think at first is love, but in later years she’ll come to recognize as also pride.

* * *

“So I made you sufficiently proud, then?” George strokes his daughter’s hair as she leans against him, where he’s nestled against her.

Liberty considers this, and then nods. “Five stars, Daddy” she says, an endearment saved for when they’re alone together, nestling her dark head against his chin.

George doesn’t favour either of his children. He can do different things with both of them-Luke’s the one who introduced him to the NFL, his son more interested in the force with which the players can crash into each other, George automatically mapping out the paths followed by each player, mind tracing the strategy to compare it to the plans he’d look up later, thoughts feeling their way through the calculations needed for a victory. But out of the two of them, Liberty’s the one who’s closer to his interest in politics-while Luke’s interested in it, will talk about it, Liberty’s the one who, like him, wants to hear about more than the politics-wants to hear her father talk about the patterns behind it, the way to design lines of attack to double back and then hit when they’re least expected. Luke likes the ideas, while Liberty likes that and the strategies.

Liberty nestles into his side, book still balanced against her knees. George strokes his daughter’s thick hair between his fingers, relishing the colour with an almost proud possessiveness-while Luke’s hair is dark, it’s still recognizably a deep chestnut. Liberty’s hair is almost the exact shade of George’s own, black with a slight wave to the ends, which is all the more striking for her blue eyes. George remembers carrying her as a baby, his fingers stroking the dark downy hair already covering her head, those blue eyes staring up at him silently, as if knowing she held his heart in her chubby little hand.

One thing he loves about Liberty is that she still reads to him. People might have thought it would be Frances who’d get that privilege, being the writer, but while Liberty might talk about her writing with her mother, it’s always been George who gets her reading to him at night, lying on her bed, even now, at the age of eleven.

“If you ever weren’t Chancellor anymore-“

“Mmm?” George nestles his chin on his daughter’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around her, cuddling her against his chest.

“Would you be sad?” Liberty half-turns round in his arms, her fingers stroking her father’s chin, tracing his features, the way she has since she was a small child. 

George angles his mouth against her forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of his daughter’s hair, anchoring himself. Last year, Frances and Liberty had come to watch him give the Budget with her parents, and while he’d noticed Frances was there, his eyes moving over her face with a small smile, it had been Liberty’s grin that had widened in his own chest, prompting one of his own, leaving him feeling buoyed up, taller in a way nothing else can. Afterwards, while he’d felt a reassured pleasantness at the sight of his wife, it had been Liberty running into his arms that had sent the rush of joy exploding through his chest, his arms wrapping her into him, breathing her in, bringing them both back to earth.

Now, he looks at his daughter, presses his cheek against hers’. “Yes” he says, honestly, because Liberty can draw out his honesty in a way that other people can’t. “But at the same time-there’d be other stuff that would be good. Like seeing you more.”

Liberty looks up at him calmly, as if reading his thoughts, and then snuggles into him, under his chin. “Would you miss it?”

George thinks, more honest than he might be with anyone else, even Frances. He knows he loves Frances, he cares about her. But sometimes he looks at the way David looks at Sam and wonders at it.

Now, he looks back at Liberty and strokes her hair off her face. “Yes” he says, gently, and Liberty touches his cheek. George pulls her further into his arms, buries his face in her hair, breathing her in. “But I’d get over it.”

Liberty holds onto him, and George kisses her ear, her cheek. He nestles his head against his daughter’s, even when she reaches for her book again, kissing her forehead, curling her hair around his fingers, tying them both together.

* * *

Peter looks entirely too happy when he finds George on his doorstep.

“Make a habit of lingering there, dear boy?”

George arches his eyebrows. “Only at the frequent invitation of the home-owner.”

Peter tuts. “I’m hurt, Georgie.”

George rolls his eyes, proffering the bottle of wine with a flourish.

Peter’s eyes narrow, one eyebrow travelling expressively further up his forehead. “Why, dear Gideon, if it weren’t for the fact we were expecting other guests, I’d have thought you were trying to court me.”

George, who might have blushed another day at this comment, is prevented from doing so by the prickle of irritation that curls down his spine, straightening him up. “Don’t call me that.”

Peter’s eyebrow arches still further, a smirk tugging teasingly at his mouth. “But it suits you so well, Gideon” he says, and George feels the odd squirming sensation inside that he’s never sure is pleasurable or painful or some strange mixture.

“As Mandy suits you” he says, having learnt to iron out the creases in his words, and satisfaction leaves a bitter taste on the back of his tongue at the almost imperceptible twitch of Peter’s eyelid as he steps back to let George in through the door, the unspoken concession of a draw.

“Your friend has just been enlightening us as to the many delights of being your opposite number” Peter says, silken words almost but not quite brushing his ear. George might have shivered were it not for the fact that these words alert him to the fact Balls is waiting for him on the other side of that door.

“Flattered, ever so. Unlike him to play the coquette.”

These words are uttered as the door into Peter’s living room is pushed open and are greeted with a “Would you like me to flutter my eyelashes, Osborne?”

There’s a snort from the sofa opposite that could indicate either amusement or disgust-knowing Alastair, likely both-but it’s the other laugh, the one edged with a higher pitch, bringing to mind the casual wave of a hand, that draws George’s gaze like an arrow, his body suddenly tautening, as though pulled to the sound like a compass swinging north. He stares at the man in the armchair, tries to restrain his tongue from dancing over his lips nervously.

“Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” comes Peter’s voice, mild and deliciously wicked, his hand giving George’s upper arm the slightest squeeze as he steps past him, his eyes lingering on George’s for less than a breath, just enough time for George to know that this is the real reason for Peter’s concession at the door, because of course, it had to be.

“George” says the sunny voice of Tony Blair, eyes turned up to George’s in an almost angelic parody of innocence. “Hi.”

* * *

George allows himself a glance at Blair every few minutes. Any more than that, and he’ll get a knowing nudge in the ribs from Balls. He’s already caught what he thinks is a slightly smug grin every time Balls catches his eyes straying near Tony or the movement of his throat when Blair glances at him.

As it is, there’s plenty else to observe. Like the way Peter, even now, sits on a sofa across from George and Balls, with Alastair and Blair seated on another, perpendicular to Peter’s right, near but not quite touching. On both of those sofas, there’s space for at least one other person, and George notices everyone’s eyes keep moving to those empty places and then away.

And because he’s spent a lifetime fighting all of them, to various extents, he looks straight at Alastair, whose fuse George can already tell is tautening, and says softly, “We’re not being joined by your Scottish friend then?”

It’s Blair’s face which tightens slightly, very slightly, though his smile doesn’t fade. George doesn’t know, even under the fluttering of a want to look at Blair again and again, whether he feels bad or not.

“Oh, Georgie” Peter murmurs, and George looks up to find Peter’s gaze resting on his own face. “How very cruel you can be.”

“Shut up” barks Alastair, glaring at Peter rather than George. “You’re the one who brought him here.”

Peter steeples his fingers under his chin. “I’m the one who brought you here.”

“Bollocks. I don’t count.”

George snorts. Blair gives him an amused smile and George tries not to squirm happily. Balls’ smirk as he glances between them does the trick.

“Look” Alastair says, abruptly, after glaring at George for a suitable period of time. “You’ve got to know why you’re fucking here, Osborne.”

George, perhaps conscious of both Blair’s and Peter’s gazes on him, affects a casual air, leaning back against the sofa. “Actually, I’m missing that nugget of the conversation.”

“Oh, don’t fuck about, Osborne. We all know why we’re here.”

George shrugs. “Not me.”

“And isn’t that the truth.

“Alastair.” Peter’s tone is stretched-out, faintly warning as he raises his eyes to the ceiling over his steepled fingers, but it’s Tony who draws Alastair’s gaze with the teasing tone, “Ali.”*

Campbell doesn’t blush, but he does the nearest thing to a wriggle George would judge it possible for Campbell to do. Balls doesn’t blush either, but his gaze drops to his knees, and George glances at him, used to studying every one of his gestures. It takes a moment for the penny to drop.

“You told them” he says, a statement rather than a question, and this time Balls’ cheeks do flush.

“Only him” he says defiantly, with a nod towards Campbell, who snorts again. “And only because he wouldn’t help.”

“I wouldn’t have helped _you”_ snorts Alastair. “I’d have helped-“

George waits for him to say Blair or Peter or someone else, but eventually Alastair just lets the sentence hang in the air.

“The fact of the matter is” Peter says, rather slowly, drawing the words out with a long, sweeping glance around at them all. “This is a situation that could prove rather-delicate for everyone involved.”

There’s a short, taut silence.

It’s broken by Alastair who says, suddenly louder, to Tony “I still can’t believe you didn’t fucking tell me you’d phoned him!”

Tony laughs. “Is Gordon and I having a phone call really that much of a story?”

“Yeah” Alastair says bluntly, looking Tony straight in the eye. “Yeah, it is, actually.”

Tony’s smile doesn’t fade, but his eyes dart away and once again, for less than an instant, George sees his features tighten, reining in something raw and private that almost but not quite creeps across his face.

There’s another silence, which is broken by Alastair saying, rather roughly, “Look, for God’s sake, we all know why we’re here.”

George feels Peter’s eyes flicker to him, barely perceptibly. Perhaps that helps him school his features into a look of innocently polite bewilderment, as he tilts his chin enquiringly towards Alastair.

Alastair snorts. “Don’t give me that look, Osborne, you’re not a fucking Botticelli.”

George widens his eyes slightly. “I had no idea you found me cherubic.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches very slightly. George’s eyes flicker to his, but Peter has already looked away. Tony chuckles very slightly and George wishes, to his slight embarrassment, that he could look at him a little less quickly.

“Don’t play coy, Gideon” Alastair says, with a flash of his old sneer, which, George tells himself rather aggrievedly, still isn’t a patch on his own.

Peter clucks his teeth very slightly. George deliberately doesn’t let himself glance at him, but feels a hint of heat creep up his cheeks at the roll of Alastair’s eyes in Peter’s direction. Tony, however, leans back in his chair, letting his eyes move between them all slowly, with the expression of a cat savouring a particularly large dollop of clotted cream.

“Perhaps you could enlighten me” he suggests, wondering from Peter’s slight tap of his fingers whether that’s a little too obvious. He endeavours to make up for it by examining his own fingernails, idly.

Alastair snorts. “Oh, for fuck’s-“

“We thought we could take some advice from the current government.” This is Tony, of course. Tony with a laugh in his voice. George makes himself count to three before he looks at him, as Tony turns the full force of his winning smile on him, his teeth a little whiter than they used to be, his skin perhaps a little tauter.

“To help someone who’s likely to never be in one?” George says smoothly, letting his head tilt slightly towards Balls, who guffaws a little too loudly. George glances at him, only now noticing that Balls hasn’t said anything since he entered the room. About to cross to the window and check for signs of the imminent apocalypse, he finds an alternative answer when he witnesses Balls’ eyes dart, for less than a second, to Alastair, who returns the gaze with something that could almost exactly match the definition of dislike.

“I forgot there’s some history between you all” George interjects, his own nerves dying down a little as he takes in his odd quadrangle of companions. Peter’s eyebrow arches very slightly as Alastair’s brow furrows menacingly.

“Careful, Georgie” he murmurs, though his lip curls treacherously.

George, taking the hint, widens his eyes again at Alastair, partly for the purpose of irritating him. Alastair’s eyes narrow, and he glances at Tony.

Tony lifts his hands. “I’m not the one who called the meeting.” He lets his eyes rest on Alastair a second too long. “Or who’s chairing it, Ali.”

Alastair glares at him, then folds his arms, somehow managing to give the action the same emphasis as someone else slamming a door.

“Look, you know they’re too fucking close” he announces, glaring at every one of them in turn, as though they have personally engineered David and Ed’s closeness. Only Balls escapes the glare-Alastair’s gaze moves over him as though he doesn’t exist.

It doesn’t seem that George is the only one who’s noticed-Balls’ cheeks colour slightly and he coughs, looking down at his knees. Alastair pays him no attention, but Tony leans forward slightly, tongue touching his lips for less than a second. “What’s the matter, Ed?” His voice is light, teasing. “Not intellectual enough for you?”*

Balls’ blush deepens. Alastair glances at him, this time, another glance between him and Tony, and rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Like I said” George can’t help but add. “History.”

At this, Peter arches an eyebrow. George feels his heartbeat quicken very slightly, even as Alastair rounds on him. “Do you want to shut the fuck up or stop talking in bloody riddles?”

George can’t help a faint smile at that. “I’ve read your diaries, Alastair.”

Alastair looks as though he doesn’t know if he wants to look flattered or even more furious. Instead, he settles for a growled-out “Well, that’s more than your fucking leader’s done.”*

“It’s more than I’ve done.”

Alastair turns round to glare at Tony. “Of course it is, you can’t sit still long enough to read a fucking page, you were too busy wandering round in your fucking underwear.”*

Balls makes a choked sound in his throat.

“I must have missed this critical juncture” Peter says, silkily.

Alastair makes a disbelieving sound.

“We’ve already discussed this” George says, following an instinct of what will make Alastair less comfortable, and so wriggling an inch closer to Balls. Balls blushes, shifts slightly on the sofa. George deliberately doesn’t move away. “And since we didn’t come to any conclusions-“ He deliberately lets the sentence hang in the air.

Alastair shakes his head. “I’m still not sure he should be here.”

“You used to be friendlier on Hampstead Heath” George says, before he can stop himself. Tony’s eyebrows travel further up his forehead and Balls makes an odd squawking sound.

“I had no idea you were so familiar with certain aspects of North London, Gideon” Peter says, stressing the name slightly. George frowns, remembering his look at Alastair earlier but Peter lets his gaze glide away.

“I thought this was your friend’s idea?” George asks, widening his eyes in faux-innocence at Alastair.

“Mine?”

George lets his elbow touch Balls’ in response. Peter’s lips tighten and George feels something far too close to a vindictive wrench.

Alastair gives a contemptuous snort and looks away. Tony, with an expression of immense enjoyment that George recognizes with a thrill because he’s seen it on his own face before, lets his gaze move slowly between them and Balls. Balls looks away from Alastair but not before his gaze meets George’s and he glares furiously.

“I suggested we should get together and discuss it” he says finally, throwing his head up with some renewed defiance to look at Peter rather than Alastair. “I didn’t suggest-“

Tony laughs, that sunny sound that draws the others’ eyes to him like a magnet. “I know you might have hoped for someone a little more intellectual.”

Balls definitely blushes this time. George deliberately presses their arms a little closer together.

“Well” he says, slowly. “We don’t have anything we can do to stop them spending time together.”

Alastair rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t a fucking waste of time inviting you, then.”

Peter makes another, barely audible disapproving noise in his throat. Alastair rolls his eyes, and turns away, gaze fixed on Peter. His back’s to George but Peter’s expression is inscrutable, his eyes meeting Alastair’s.

“What?” Alastair, says, perhaps to Peter, or the room at large, and it’s then that Tony tilts his head back, takes a sip of his wine, and says, “Well, that wouldn’t have worked with me and Gordon, would it?”

* * *

“Osborne?” Alastair almost snarls, his hand nearly slamming into the fridge, to Peter’s raised eyebrow.

“George?”

 _“Osborne”_ Alastair snarls again, almost forcing the name out.

“What about him?” Peter allows himself a thin smile, leaning back against the counter, offering a fresh lemonade to Alastair with a flourish. “As I recall, you’re rather fond of him.”*

Alastair snorts. “Don’t talk about being fond of Osborne. I don’t think _you_ can talk about being fond of Osborne.”

“I’m not the one who had a photo of him pinned to my fridge.”

Alastair leans against the fridge. “If you’re that protective of him, why’ve you left him down there with Tony?”

Peter tries not to bristle slightly. “Ed is there.”

“Balls, who said he’d fucking cook him pulled pork? You’ll be lucky if Osborne doesn’t have him licking whipped cream off his chest.” Alastair holds up his hand. “I don’t want to imagine that. See, _you_ made me fucking imagine that.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “That sounds alarmingly close to projection, Ali.”

Alastair slams the glass down on the counter a little harder than he needs to, before grabbing it and turning back to the balcony to stare over the edge moodily. Peter’s eyebrow arches higher but he takes the hint. "Careful. It's only a balcony, they can still hear you."

Alastair gives him a look that tells him to stop talking. Peter considers this, and keeps talking.

“You always did hate not being able to do anything” he points out, slowly bringing his own lemon tea round to rest beside Alastair’s cup as he joins him by the balcony that overlooks the large room below, stirring it deliberately slowly. “It’s one thing that brings out the very worst in you.”

“There’s not nothing I can fucking do.” Alastair’s scowl tells a different story. “I can fucking tell him to stay away from Cameron.”

“And as Tony pointed out” Peter says silkily. “That worked so well with him and Gordon.”

“I never told him to stay away from Gordon. For God’s sake, half the time I was pushing them into fucking rooms together.”

“And they tore each other apart.” Peter takes a slow, delicate sip of his water. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Tony and Gordon together again.”

“That’s what they’re supposed to do.” Alastair takes a gulp of his lemonade. “Not Tony and Gordon. These two. Cameron and Miliband. They’re meant to be ripping each other apart, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe they are” Peter points out mildly. “Just in a different way.”

Their eyes meet for less than a second over their drinks.

“Why did you leave him in there with Tony?” Alastair takes another gulp of his lemonade, eyeing Peter more curiously.

“And Ed” Peter points out smoothly. “They have a chaperone.”

“You’re the one fucking projecting. And anyway, if you don’t want Boy George anywhere near him, why leave him alone with the guy whose boots he’d beg to lick, for God’s sake?”

Peter’s lips purse very slightly at the nickname.

“Observation can be rather interesting, Ali” he says, stressing Alastair’s own nickname very slightly, as he turns back to the balcony that looks down over the living room, eyes already seeking out George, tucked out of sight below.

* * *

“You know, I used to dream about you.”

George chokes on his lemonade.

He shoots a furious glance at Balls, partly to silently dare him to remark on this, and partly to take a second to compose himself before raising his eyes to meet the overly-innocent gaze of Tony Blair.

George resists the urge to answer immediately. Instead, he just forces himself to raise a mildly interested eyebrow. There’s a gleam in Blair’s eyes that could be something close to intrigued.

“Yes” Blair says, after a few strategic moments of silence, and George tries not to feel too proud of the victory. “I _was_ always wondering who William had writing those PMQs for him.”

George is very, very determined not to wriggle in his seat. The fact Balls is sitting directly opposite him and Peter is somewhere overhead provides a good motivation.

“You’d have to look further than just me” he manages, voice as steady as he can make it.

Tony’s eyes sparkle, and George’s stomach does a pleasant somersault. “So it’s not true you were his star pupil?”

He doesn’t dare look at Balls, but George doesn’t have to see the smug look on his face to tell him he’s blushing. He can feel the heat burning in his cheeks and the slight twitch of Tony’s mouth below that innocent gaze tells him the same.

He forces himself to meet Tony’s eyes, stare right back. “Perhaps” he says, striving for as much composure as he can muster. “I hear you were one of Peter’s?”

Balls makes an odd muffled sound that might be a snort, a whimper, or some combination of the two. George, using all the poker-playing skills he’s ever honed, keeps his own expression merely one of polite interest.

Tony’s eyebrow arches very slightly, but his eyes gleam.

“Interesting” he says, though he eyes George with even more interest now. “You could say that.”

Their gazes hold each other and George knows, without needing to know how, that he’s scored a point in this odd little byplay.

“You’re rather quiet, Ed.” Tony turns his gaze on Balls, a hint of steel creeping into his smile. “Conversation not stimulating enough?”

Only then does George glance across at Balls, and nearly blink in a double-take. Balls, far from eyeing George’s own blush smugly, or even sitting back, legs akimbo, elbows jammed out in usual pose, looks slightly uncomfortable, the colour in his cheeks rising. Tony, however, looks perfectly at ease, the sudden sharpness of his gaze the only other needle to his words.

“Only I happen to remember you rather like your conversation intellectual.” Tony’s voice is still light, casual, as he reaches for his wine. “You certainly didn’t like to waste your time on anything less.”

George leans forward slightly, eyeing Balls with interest, the years when they were each on the other sides of the House creeping back to him.

Balls looks up defiantly, his gaze meeting Tony’s, but there’s a definite flush to his cheeks. “I wouldn’t have said I was wasting his time.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Tony’s voice is as affable as ever, his smile as warm. His blue eyes just as bright. Balls shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting to George’s for less than a second, then away.

“But then-“ says Tony, voice as light as ever. _“You_ wouldn’t have had to, would you?”

* * *

“You’ve got him well-trained.”

It takes Peter a moment to steel himself enough to turn around and look at Tony, who’s leaning against the balcony over the rest of the room with a slight smile, arms folded across his chest. Even in his sixties, he wears his age well, the silver in his hair making his eyes bluer.

“And who would that be?”

Tony’s dimple deepens, his blue eyes glinting. “He doesn’t suit that nickname much anymore, does he?” he says, almost conversationally, turning to watch George through the door. “You were quite fond of lavishing it on him a few years ago.”

“He was quite fond of dripping poison in people’s ears a few years ago.”

Tony laughs. “And that’s changed?”

Peter’s eyes meet his own wryly.

“Or for you?” Tony laughs again. “He seems to have picked up some of your tricks.”

“And I would have thought it was you he admired most.” Peter raises his eyebrow very slightly as he turns back to Tony.

“I think he grew out of that.” Tony’s tone is sunny, easy, the way it always is, a flash of teeth through his smile.

“You know it’s not just dear Eddie we have to deal with” Peter tells him, taking a slow sip of his water, stirring the lemon with his straw.

“I don’t think my heir will relish an intervention from me, do you?”

“He” says Peter silkily, “was not the David I was thinking of.”

Tony sucks in a breath, presses his lips together in a half grimace, one hand held up, what can you do. “If he doesn’t want to come back from New York-“

“I’m aware.” Peter lifts his glass, keeps his eyes on Tony’s over it. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t be useful. Brussels proved no obstacle.”

Tony laughs. “Are you suggesting Ed imitate Gordon in yet another way?”

“Well-“ Peter doesn’t let Tony break his gaze. “He seems to be willing to take advice from you, doesn’t he?”

If Tony winces, he doesn’t show it.

“It’s not as though reuniting rivals hasn’t worked for us before” Peter points out smoothly.

Tony’s head almost, but not quite, jerks. “2005 was different. That was-people didn’t know the extent of how bad things were. Between-us.”

Peter very deliberately lets himself notice that since their conversation in the living room, Tony hasn’t spoken Gordon’s name once.

“Has he phoned you again?”

Tony blinks very quickly, almost too quickly to notice. “No. No, he hasn’t.”

Peter eyes him speculatively.

Tony laughs, almost. “What else would we have to say to each other?”

Peter’s eyebrows arch. “You tell me. Jonathan was the one who used to have to listen to your phone calls.”

Tony’s cheeks colour very slightly. Peter feels something vindictive curl in his chest.

“Anyway” he says, his tone deliberately, horribly light as he begins to grind another lemon slowly round the zester. “We’ve used the alliances we’ve had to before, haven’t we?”

Tony does laugh this time, but only for a moment. “Well-“ and his hand falls onto Peter’s shoulder, fingers squeezing. “It’s not like Alastair and I are the only ones who know about that, is it?”

Peter stills for less than a second. Tony follows his gaze even as Peter forces himself to look away, one hand resting lazily on the railing, his eyes lingering on George’s head in a way that makes Peter’s lips thin, something possessive uncurling in his chest.

“Then again” says Tony, with a little laugh. “Who’s to say you’ve only used an alliance?”

He tilts his head, considering George below them for another moment, his hand tightening on Peter’s shoulder. “He is rather pretty, isn’t he?” he says, almost thoughtfully, before he claps Peter on the back and, without looking round, wanders back to the staircase, the sourness of lemons soaking into the air, leaving Peter alone.

* * *

The white panels of the Conran Shop are gentler in the evening, the usual bright blankness softened by the more friendly glow of the dimmed lights. Nancy, glancing around, stares at the bright yellow mini-car that’s been parked in the middle of the tiled floor, around which a group of people are gathering, holding their phones up to take selfies.

Mum squeezes her shoulders. “Did you ever work in here?” Nancy asks her, squeezing her fingers as Mum steers her through the crowds of people, glass of wine balanced in one hand, Nancy in the other.

“I came in a few times-“ Mum takes a sip of her wine, Nancy trailing her fingers against the soft sleeve of her dress. “But I was mainly working for Auntie Sue, because she worked for Jasper. I actually didn’t meet him while I was doing work, mainly when she had her parties.” Mum kisses her head, her fingers only touching Nancy’s hair for a moment, careful not to mess it up. Nancy adjusts her head carefully, enjoying the unusual feeling of her hair falling in loose waves around her face.

It had only been last night at dinner that Mum had asked Nancy if she wanted to come along to the party tonight, to see the Conran Shop-“-there’ll be lots of the paintings you like, the furniture, it might help your art.” Nancy remembers going into the Conran Shop a couple of times with Mum when she was little, one hand wrapped around Mum’s wrist, the other on the bar of Ivan’s wheelchair, so that she could pat him when she needed to. She remembers staring up at the bright colours of the furniture, them blurring together into new pictures and swirls of stories in her toddler’s mind. Elwen hadn’t been interested and Florence is too little, and so after school today, Mum had brought her home and she’d gone from her school uniform into her denim dress and then, once Mum had loosened her hair and gently waved the ends, into the back of a long, black car to the party.

“I think Auntie Cloe’s here” Mum tells her, gently steering Nancy through the crowds. “She said she might have Iris with her.”

Nancy’s nose crinkles slightly. It’s not that she doesn’t like Iris Harmsworth. It’s more that Iris sometimes seems almost uncomfortable remembering she and Nancy are the same age, as though she needs to hurry up and grow past that age as quickly as possible, reach the same heights as her willowy, ever-confident sisters.

Mum squeezes her shoulder. “The other Iris is here, too” she reminds her, which makes Nancy’s smile brighten, her eyes already scanning the crowds for the other Iris.

* * *

Claudia is tall and willowy, with long blonde hair with dark streaks only just peeking through. She’s bony underneath it, but she folds herself around you in hugs as though she makes you want to forget that, and Samantha feels unexpectedly tender towards her each time.

“The Goldsmiths are around somewhere” she tells Sam now, one hand on Iris’ shoulder, Iris somewhat dwarfed in her long grey coat. Theodora, her elder sister, stands next to them, with that outward composure teenagers aspire to, all black puffer coat and phone-screen glow, long blonde hair straightened with only a flick at the ends to show what Sam knows are natural waving blonde curls, seen flattened to her head as she scrambled out of the Chequers pool when she was younger, young enough not to feel the need to pretend to be older. Iris’ hair is still wavy, almost curling at the ends, her face still clinging to its’ baby fat, one hand still searching out her mother’s, even as her other tries to play with her own phone as disinterestedly as possible.

“Ben and-“ she says, carefully, the marriage only being recent.

Claudia understands. “Ben and Jemima” she says quickly, with a glance at Theodora, who, after all, was probably old enough to be aware of all the ins and outs of the arguments shouted on Twitter just a few years before, a divorce played out in @s and usernames and shouted hashtags.

The thought of it makes Sam’s hand tighten slightly on Nancy’s shoulder. She loosens her grip immediately and Nancy steps away, looking with a mixture of envy and resignation at Iris’ phone, and Sam suddenly hopes, with a desperation that almost surprises her, that Nancy didn’t notice, didn’t notice anything out of accordance with what should be at a party with art and her friends and her mother’s arm around her.

It had been after the kids were in bed the night before when Sam had gone into the living room and found Dave on the phone, seen him look at her once, then twice, in quick succession, his voice dropping to a murmur. She’d looked at him, for a moment, and then thought, quite clearly, in the brief silence between him meeting her gaze and his voice climbing back into that phone, _This is a scene from a TV drama. Something like The Good Wife or Broadchurch. Either a murder’s about to happen or something darkly comedic. This scene doesn’t happen to us._

Except that in a TV drama, there would have been a realisation, a shout cracking in the air, a slap round the face, for him or for her. For them, there’s no realisation because Sam already knows and there’s no slap for her or for him because Sam doesn’t want to slap him and Dave would die before he did anything to hurt her, and there’s no shouting because suddenly standing there, watching him, she’d felt unbearably sad for her or for him or for both of them, and so she’d walked out of the living room and into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine and wait for him. She’d noticed, even as she turned to walk out, the way Dave cradled the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, almost curling it into his collarbone, where the children had rested their heads as babies, like a second heart.

When he’d let his hand rest tentatively on her back as he joined her in the kitchen a few moments later, she hadn’t pulled away.

Instead, she’d leaned against the counter, looked up at him, and said “When is it going to stop?”

David didn’t ask what. Instead, he’d turned so his back pressed into the countertop and rubbed at one of his eyes-Sam had noticed the blue was rimmed with a slight flush, as though he’d been crying or hadn’t slept. “Soon.” Then he’d shaken his head a little and said “It has to stop soon.”

Sam had waited, knowing that wouldn’t be it.

“We’re trying to-“ Dave had tilted his head back against the cupboard, almost looking up to the ceiling for an answer. “We’re trying to find a time. To stop. To-a last time. To just-end it.”

That won’t end it, Sam thinks. You act like the touching, the kissing, the physical stuff, that’s it. That it’ll end when that ends. It’s so much bigger than that. It started way before either of you first laid a hand on the other and it’ll keep going long past the last time.

She could have said it, but rushing it wouldn’t do any good. David’s fingers had drummed slightly on the countertop behind him, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, as though trying to catch onto something, something solid, unshakable. An end point.

“He wants it” he’d said aloud suddenly, as though to reassure himself as much as her. “He wants to stop, too. We just need to-arrange when.”

Sam had almost laughed then, but she’d felt too sad. For herself, yes. But more for the way Dave would sound so sure of those words to anyone who didn’t know him well and for how firmly he’s making himself believe them.

She’d leant against his shoulder, taken his arm. “You’ve only got a week” she told him, quietly, and she’d felt the telltale flinch in his body, as though it longed to throw his arm up to bat away the words, a furious contradiction.

Now, Sam’s relieved when her daughter doesn’t glance up at her. She glances at the other two girls, studies Theodora surreptitiously under her eyelashes. Takes in the outward composure, the careful air of too-busy-to-bother, eyes studying the phone screen like a precocious businesswoman, the kind too busy to even look for a second longer than she needs to. She notices the slight whiteness of Theodora’s knuckles as she holds the phone, the way she unconsciously steps closer to her mother’s elbow as she adjusts her weight, the young woman that’s folded herself carefully round the young girl almost flinching for a moment, and Sam feels a pang of almost painful tenderness, and glances at her younger sister, Iris who Claudia tells her wishes she could be taller, Iris who Sam can see at a glance will be as tall as her sister within a few short years, Iris who used to say she wanted to be a rabbit, but who within a few years will be long and coltish, waiting to gallop.

* * *

“It tastes sweet” Iris tells her, eyes bright and dancing, as though she’s letting Nancy in on a state secret. “Like mint leaves.”

Nancy glances at the first Iris, who shrugs, glancing between them, as stumped as Nancy though less willing to admit it. Glancing back at the other Iris’ sparkling eyes, Nancy takes a sip of the green beverage, her nose crinkling, though not unpleasantly, at the tang of it on her tongue.

“It’s Arizona Green Tea” the other Iris tells her, giggling slightly, arms wrapping around herself, the freckles on her cheeks standing out prettily under the slight natural blush that covers her skin. Her long auburn hair falls around her cheeks, bouncing slightly as she smiles at Nancy, the three girls’ heads bent together as they huddle in the corner, under the silver tiara she’s placed atop her head.

Iris Goldsmith has long, reddish-gold hair, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones, and a constant giggling excitement about her, as though the world’s a series of treats for her to grasp. Nancy can’t even remember when she first met Iris-either Iris-but there’s something effervescent about Iris Goldsmith, a bubbling brightness, like lemonade on the tip of her tongue in summer.

The three girls have split off from the adults, their attention only held for so long by the conversation of their mothers, though all three of them pay rather more attention to the furniture and paintings scattered around them than others their age might. This is partly because it’s the sort of furniture and paintings any of the three of them might see in their own homes, but also because they’re the sort of things the three of them have grown up seeing, in their mothers’ work and museums and art galleries on Saturday trips and in their parents’ parties. They’ll be vaguely aware that most other girls their age don’t see them the same way, won’t know the familiar names and trends, but won’t quite understand the disparity between them yet. They’re young enough not to have to notice.

“When do you go to Wycombe?” Nancy asks the two Irises, having ended up between them, Iris Goldsmith’s arm linked easily in her own, her bracelets rattling around her skinny wrist.

“Not sure yet” Iris tells her, reaching around Nancy’s back to tap the other Iris’s arm. “Start of September, same time as you go to secondary school.” Both of the Irises have been given places at Wycombe Abbey to start in September, the three girls all having been born over the same two months.

“Are you scared?”

Iris Goldsmith’s nose crinkles, her arm squeezing Nancy’s happily as she almost bounces along. “Not really. Dad says he and Uncle Zac both liked boarding school. And your dad did, didn’t he?”

Nancy nods. “He liked Eton” she says, a little doubtfully, because Dad only really talks about liking Eton, where he went when he was thirteen. She knows Iris’s dad, Ben, and Uncle Zac both went to Eton too, but they weren’t there at the same time as Dad.

“Where did your dad go?”

Iris Harmsworth shrugs her shoulders. “Somewhere up in Scotland, where Prince Charles went. Vere went to Eton, though.” Iris’s eldest brother, Vere, is at Oxford with their sister Eleanor, a statuesque girl with a fall of long blonde hair almost to her waist.

“Plus, you’ve already got a sister there” Iris Goldsmith points out, leaning around Nancy to see the other Iris as they reach the yellow car model, her tiara almost falling off as she does so. “Theodora likes it.”

“She hates leaving our horses, though” Iris Harmsworth says, regretfully, tugging her hair loose from the collar of her long grey coat. “And I’ll have to leave mine, too.”

“They’re the stable ponies, aren’t they?”

Iris nods, and Iris Goldsmith reaches round and squeezes her elbow sympathetically.

“Will you have to leave yours’?”

“Yes” Iris says complacently. “But I only ride them at Daddy’s farm.” While Iris Harmsworth has taken part in dressage competitions since Nancy can remember, with regular riding practice and gymkhanas and rosettes, Iris Goldsmith likes riding the ponies who graze in the fields at her father’s farm whenever the fancy takes her, bouncing along bareback as the ponies trot gently around a field, sometimes stopping to graze lazily at the grass as she wraps her arms around their necks happily, sometimes pushing her face into their manes.

“Doesn’t your Auntie Jemima still have the ponies?” Nancy asks, both Irises arm in arm with her now, as they lean back against the car, Iris Harmsworth looking a little more relaxed now they’re away from her sister’s long curls of blonde hair, her smooth, blemish-free skin, as though in defiance of her teenage years. “We’ve ridden them when we go to Kiddington.” Iris’s Auntie Jemima, Uncle Zac and Uncle Ben’s sister, has a huge mansion at Kiddington, that looks more like a house you’d see in a film than anything else, with a hill where they roll slides down into a lake in summer, and a series of friendly ponies who are always happy to offer a ride. Nancy and Bea have ridden them a few times with Iris-Iris’s dad sometimes does some work for Uncle Michael.**

“Yep” Iris Goldsmith tells her with a happy nod, the girls blissfully unaware of the rare privilege of having this kind of conversation the three of them share. “She’s getting a new one, actually, I think. It’ll probably have arrived by summer. Daddy’s getting one too, for when we go to his farm.” Although Iris’s face is composed, the faintest hint of a shadow touches her ready smile at this. Nancy feels a squeeze of sympathy. Iris’s parents divorced a couple of years before, a length of time that to Nancy feels long, but she knows to grown-ups is rather short. While Nancy doesn’t know too much about it, she’d sensed from her parents’ whispers, news headlines turned over hastily whenever their names were mentioned, that there was something unusual about it, something different from the divorces many of her classmates’ parents have gone through. Despite the fact the news has only recently become a little more to her than something that flickers across the TV screens at night, she’s known, without knowing quite how, that like her own parents, both the Irises’ families are also people whose names appear on newspaper pages and call cameras to wait outside their houses, and she doesn’t need to be told that that made whatever happened worse. Iris doesn’t talk about it very much, but the last time Nancy saw her was just before Christmas, a couple of days after Uncle Ben had got married to his new wife, Jemima, and they’d gone round for dinner before Uncle Ben went on his honeymoon.

“Will your mum and dad go together when they take you?” Nancy asks, more gently, as Iris detaches herself from the other and walks round the car to lean across the other side, thinking of how weird it is when she mentions something about Ivan and people just ignore it or try to change the subject to be nice.

Iris shrugs. “Maybe. Mum and him talk more now, and they’re both coming to the Open Day.” She looks a little happier at this thought.

Nancy frowns, thinking for some reason of the look on her father’s face when he’d seen her waiting outside his office the day before. She’s not sure why, but something about Iris’ little exchange-perhaps a memory of a few years before, the look on Iris’ mother’s face at some party that they’d been too young to really notice back then-reminds her of it, but then Iris leans over the car, extending her hands to touch both Nancy’s across the roof and the other Iris’s on the bonnet and Nancy puts it out of her mind.

* * *

“The fact of the matter is, dear boy” Peter says, striding beside him with the air of one rather enjoying his long black greycoat billowing around them. “That there is very little we can do without openly confronting them.”

George tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, ignoring the warmth of Peter’s arm, which he’s insisted rather chivalrously of slipping George’s hand through. “Then what was the point of meeting last night?”

Peter purses his lips, one hand patting George’s rather proprietarily. “Why, my dear boy, are you saying you didn’t enjoy your dinner?”

George tests the words in his head, before saying, a teasing lilt to the words, “It wasn’t accompanied by your usual dinner treats.”

Peter allows his eyebrows to travel further up his forehead, tsk-tsks. “Why, Georgie, I may choose to be rather scandalised by that remark.”

George widens his eyes, innocently. “I meant Reinaldo.”

Peter punishes him with a slight warning squeeze of his upper arm. George tries to ignore the quickening of his heart rate.

“Anyway” Peter tells him, as they stroll through the night air, protected from any prying eyes by the trees that overhang the long Regent’s Park road, creating a natural curtain. “I would have thought you would be positively begging to thank me for the little treat of letting you have dinner with your master, dear boy.”

Something in Peter’s tone makes George glance at him once, then again. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Peter” he says, his own voice deliberately easy. “I never took Tony to that taverna in Kassioppi, after all.”

Peter tuts once again, but this time with a dangerous pause beforehand. “You’re treading on thin ice, Gideon.”

Something about the name makes something still in George’s chest, but not the way it did the night before when Alastair used it. He glances at Peter, noting, with an arched eyebrow that Peter doesn’t seem to mind George’s hand being tucked in his elbow.

“I wasn’t the only one last night, I noticed” he remarks, deliberately not allowing his eyes to linger on Peter’s expression.

“Oh?”

George can feel Peter’s eyes rest on him a second longer than necessary as they walk. “You don’t seem to take kindly to Campbell calling me that.”

“Calling you what, dear boy?”

George meets his gaze. Peter looks back, enquiringly.

“The same thing you do” George says, avoiding the trap.

“Ah.” Peter tilts his head, apparently deciding whether he’d rather follow the conversation to an interesting place or watch George squirm a little longer. “And what would that be?”

“Don’t tell me your memory’s going, Peter.”

This earns him a sharp jab in the ribs that comes dangerously close to a ticklish spot. George will go to his grave insisting he hasn’t almost giggled.

“If you’re not going to be specific-“

“I’ll just have to presume you were feeling fond.”

That earns him a momentary pause from Peter. George congratulates himself.

“I would prefer possessive” Peter says, after only the slightest of hesitations.

“Possessively fond?”

This earns him another squeeze, which is far too soft to serve as any kind of punishment.

“We didn’t really seem to come to any sort of conclusion, though” George continues, for the purposes of keeping some sort of professionalism in their speech. “Regarding David and Miliband.”

“I would so much prefer it if those names were next to each other.”

George tuts. “Passing the secrets of Labour divisions to the opposition, Peter?”

“I’m glad to hear you preparing for such, Gideon.” If the name is very slightly softened, compared to the rest of the sentence, neither of them comment.

“I imagine there is a scenario where neither of us is overly satisfied with the outcome if we don’t come up with a solution.”

“That has a rather ominous tone, Gideon.”

“Well, what exactly are we intending to do?”

“I think what was made fairly clear last night” says Peter, after a short, considering pause. “Is that without addressing either your dear leader or Eddie directly, we’re at rather a short straw.”

George snorts. “That’ll go fantastically. “Hello, David, did you happen to bonk the Leader Of The Opposition at your daughter’s birthday party while we were all eating marshmallows?”

Peter tsks again. “Such uncouth language from such a pretty mouth.”

“I have it on authority from Alastair you’ve said worse” George retorts, as much to cover up the strange jolt in the pit of his stomach caused by the last few words.

Peter gives him an almost coquettish look. It’s a deeply disturbing sight. “Are you saying you find my mouth pretty, Georgie?”

George ignores the rise of colour to his cheeks, his own eyes meeting Peter’s. “Are you saying you find that of mine?”

Peter’s mouth quirks. “Well, why else would I have said that, Georgie?”

George forces himself to arch an eyebrow, resisting the urge to fumble away. “Why else would you?” he manages, his voice only slightly higher than usual.

Peter smiles. “Any number of reasons, Georgie.”

George looks away. “This could be the second night you may have invited me over at cross-purposes” he manages, with what he deems to be considerable restraint.

“I was rather tempted to invite that lovely wife of yours’ as well” Peter says, silkily. “How is Frances?”

George opens his mouth, feels his way slowly through the next few words, mindful of how they fall, like pieces scattered across a game board. “She’s fine.”

“And did she not wish to be graced with your handsome presence tonight?”

George tries not to let a hint of a scowl show through. “She’s at a book club-thing.” He and Frances have never been like Dave and Sam-comfortable sitting in one another’s laps evening after evening, any time they have automatically shared. George has never questioned it, and only occasionally wonders if he should have done.

“Ah” muses Peter, contemplatively. “And here you’ve found a little club of your own.”

George glances at him sharply. Peter only smiles slightly in return, leaving George looking away, ruffled and not entirely certain why.**

“Anyway” Peter says smoothly, perhaps choosing to give George respite, perhaps not. “I have a proposition for you, Gideon.”

If George had been taking a drink, he would have choked.

“Dear, dear” Peter says, with quiet amusement, watching George sputter on thin air. “I wasn’t aware you found fraternal infighting quite such an excitement.”

George blinks. “Fraternal-oh.” He’s quiet for a moment as light dawns. “Oh. And you’d be wrong about that, in fact.”

“Ah, yes.” If Peter could, he’d be steepling his fingers, but George’s hand through his elbow prevents that. Neither of them make any move to change their positions, however. “I remember your little party after that leadership announcement.”

“I imagine you had one planned for a different outcome.” George awkwardly wraps his right hand around his left, which is clutching Peter’s elbow. “And if you’re referring to who I think, what exactly is it you’re thinking he’d do? I think the last time he and your dear leader spoke was sometime around the Cold War-“

He earns himself an elbow in the ribs.

“My dear boy” Peter says, voice sounding far too amused for someone who’s just inserted his elbow into George’s chest. “It’s not _our_ dear leader I was thinking of him addressing.”

* * *

“How’s the clothing line progressing?” Claudia asks, when the younger girls have peeled off and Theodora has drifted over to Ellie and Luke Wintour, her eyes seeming fixed to the latter.

Sam takes a sip of her wine, partly to put off answering. She glances around automatically, relaxing only when her eyes land on Nancy, leaning on the yellow car, chatting animatedly with the two Irises and the two Pilkington girls, who seem to have joined them.

“It’s progressing” she tells Claudia, who nods understandingly. Claudia’s lovely, but she’s always been content with the life she has, which Sam supposes is what you have to be when you agree to marry someone who will become the Viscount Rothermere. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but marrying Dave didn’t seem to come with those kind of conditions. Dave being an MP certainly didn’t trail into Dave becoming Prime Minister in either of their minds, and designing clothes had always been something to easily move into the future, beyond the next buyout, the next product reissuing, the next mortgage, after moving house, after having a baby.

And then Ive had been born, and then there’d only been what would happen the next day, because years in the future wasn’t an option anymore.*

“It’s going to be a problem if it progresses too quickly” she’d told Dave last night, having steered the conversation to her own career, sensing Dave didn’t want to talk about his own following his phone call with Ed Miliband. “Because-if we’re still here next year-it would be quite difficult, with launching it and everything else-“

David had been uncharacteristically quiet after his phone call, but he’d been drawing his fingers slowly through Sam’s hair as she nestled against him, head in his lap.

“You can’t hold yourself back” he’d said, after a short silence, Sam having slid her fingers through his, to draw her lips against the back of his hand. “It-I don’t want-“ She’d been able to picture his face without having to turn to look, the exact crease in his forehead that she could trace with her fingertip. 

“I don’t want you to feel that your career has to be the one that comes second” he’d told her finally, stroking her hair almost restlessly. “And-I don’t think-another ten years-would necessarily be-ideal for us.”

Sam had turned over slightly then, so she could nestle her face into his stomach. “But you’re standing for a second term.”

“I know.” Dave had brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, eyes restless, moving back and forth slowly, gaze focused in the middle distance, a sign of intense thought. “But-whether we’ll-“ He’d laughed slightly, suddenly. “If we get a second term-fighting the next election-if that’s someone else doing it-it would be better to stand down at least a year before. They’ll need to get time to get into their stride.”

He’d shaken his head suddenly. “We need to win this one first” he’d said, almost businesslike and almost to himself, before he’d returned to stroking her hair. “And if we do-we’ll be able to figure it out, darling. We can’t-“

He’d sighed and Sam wished she hadn’t been able to detect the slight note of guilt in the words. “I can’t have you put things off for me” he’d said and Sam had brought his hand to her mouth again, the only way to say everything she’d wanted to about his phone call, and the only way to remind them both that somehow, even when they’d both wanted to talk about her career, they’d ended up talking about his.

The thing is, at these types of parties, most of the women are people like Alex, whom Samantha can see in the corner chatting animatedly with Mark, her hand resting on his arm near-constantly, or Lily, who’s sipping a cocktail while Jo and the other Alex argue over her shoulders. Their careers and the hours they need for them can come first, can take up hours of time and late nights and early mornings.

For Sarah and Frances, it’s different. Their writing can be done whenever they like it, wherever they like it. Their careers aren’t easier, but they are different. For Sam-and, she supposes, for Justine and Miriam-their careers are things that have to be fitted around their husbands’. Even if no one ever wanted them to be that way.

Her eyes fall on Nancy, who’s stroking the tulle of her Oshkosh dress between her fingers, chattering with one of the Pilkington girls. Sam doesn’t need to be near her daughter to know she’s talking about the dress, the intense look on her daughter’s face telling her she’s talking about the fabric, the design, in a way that might well baffle the other girl. She thinks of herself and Emily at the same age, how in a few years Nancy could be sewing dresses of her own, and feels another, almost weirdly sudden rush of thankfulness that she brought Nancy with her tonight.

“It’s progressing” she says, and she takes another sip of wine, and lets herself watch her daughter.

* * *

“Tell Danny he shouldn’t be ashamed” David says into the phone, giving James an apologetic look for yet another afternoon spent trudging around delivering leaflets. James squeezes his hand in response, which gives David an accompanying affectionate squeeze in the chest and then a guilty twinge as he remembers how long it took for him to let James do that.

“I will.”

“And that it was a bold move.”

“I’ll tell him that too.”

“And that he should hold his head high.”

“I’ll advise him.”

“And then ask him to what South American nation he will shortly be fleeing.”

Nick laughs, but it sounds like a groan. It sounds like how David feels. James squeezes his hand again, for longer this time.

* * *

“Can we give them a shot of the kids’ shoes?” Michael says, examining the shoe racks in the conservatory corridor, holding his hands up to form an imaginary camera.

David, staring into space, takes a moment to answer.

“Oh.” He blinks. “Sorry-er-“ He walks over to the door, as if that’ll remind him what the kids’ shoes actually look like.

Michael shrugs. “Just to get a family feel, you know-“

“Erm-“ David shakes his head. “I’ll ask Sam when she arrives tonight.”

If he hesitates slightly on the last words, maybe the others won’t notice.

Liz’s hand touches his elbow, as Michael answers the phone with a tone that suggests this is the seventh time Rob has called him this morning with a question about wallpaper furnishings. “Are you all right?”

David is, surprisingly. Or at least, he’s close to functioning. As much as he can be on several hours’ less sleep than usual and the two conversations he’s had over the last day.

“You’ve got a week left.” Sam had curled up against him on the bed when they’d got in from the party at the gallery, having tucked Nancy up in bed with a hot chocolate. “The thing you’ve got to-you’ve got to work out-“ She’d sighed, playing with his hand. “Do you want-do you want to stop-“

She’d meant to say, _do you want to stop now,_ they both knew, but that wasn’t what she said.

“Yes” he’d said, but he said it too quickly, and yet waited too long to say it.

He’d thought for a long moment, his fingers tangling Sam’s hair around them. “This has to stop” he’d said, suddenly, out loud, as though coming to a decision there and then. “This has to-I’ve got to stop it. We can’t do it once the campaign’s started” he’d said, and then he’d shaken his head. “We can’t do it. We’ve-I’ll call him tomorrow. Ask him to meet. Tell him we’ve got to stop.”

Sam had been silent for a moment, but when David had glanced at her, she’d taken his hand and kissed it.

Now, he glances around the kitchen, trying not to remember the moment in January when he’d woken up in the guest room upstairs with Miliband pressed into his side, sleeping half-curled around him. David squeezes his eyes shut for less than a moment, before he remembers how it felt to have Miliband curl deeper into him, like another heartbeat.

“Sam and the kids are coming later” he says, for the benefit of Liz and the others. “They’re going to come up this afternoon, after the kids have finished school.”

This is, indeed, true, and seems to pacify the others. What they don’t know, is that David won’t be here.

“We need to speak” he’d said, tersely, to Miliband, earlier this morning, the phone pressed to his ear in the back of the car. “We need to sort this out.”

Miliband had laughed, the sound almost painfully taut. “Do you-“ The hesitation in his voice had told David that, like himself, Miliband was surrounded by advisers, aides, their voices clashing together over the one in his ear. “Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“Yes.” David had swallowed. “That’s why we need to talk.”

He’d known Miliband was shaking his head without needing to see him. The knowledge should have disturbed him, but didn’t.

“Absolutely-“ Miliband’s breath had stuttered in his throat. “Not. No way. We can’t. I can’t-“

“Miliband.” David had almost murmured this, his head turned away from Craig into his sleeve. “It’s-“ His voice had almost trembled then, but he’d cleared his throat. “This can be the last time. If you want. This can be the last time we’ll need to discuss this.”

It had hurt, saying it. It had hurt more knowing that this would be the thing which would make Miliband think twice.

There was a hesitation, which had, foolishly, let hope flicker into a flame in David’s chest. Then, Miliband’s voice. “Then maybe we should speak.”

That had hurt, even as David had forced himself to smile at his own reflection in the glass.

Now, he glances down at his phone restlessly, and tries not to count down the minutes until he needs to be at Chequers.

* * *

It’s rare that Gita takes the kids to Oxfordshire. Sam can only assuage herself with the thought that she’s going up there in a few hours.

It’s rarer still that she doesn’t tell David exactly who she has to see beforehand. But it’s hardly a usual situation.

Thinking that to herself, Sam almost laughs. Her husband’s gone up to Chequers to have a final meeting with his political rival who’s also something resembling an on-off boyfriend. What about the situation is normal?

Sam plays with the sewing machine, then pushes it away. Then pulls it closer again.

She glances at the clock.

Fifteen minutes.

* * *

Ed’s driven past the turn-off for the country lane that leads to Chequers three times now.

Four times.

He glances at the clock. He can get away with saying he’s in Doncaster for one night. One night’s all he needs, he reminds himself. They’ll talk about this-whatever this thing is between them now-and then there’s PMQs on Wednesday and that’s it.

He tries to ignore the slightly sick breathlessness gripping at his insides at the thought because there was more time, he was sure of it, there was more time-

And it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t need it, or he shouldn’t need it.

He shouldn’t even be here.

Ed glances at the clock. Then away. Then back.

He shouldn’t need this.

But he just thought they had more time.

Five times.

He turns down the road.

* * *

“The décor hasn’t changed since last time” Sam says, partly humorously, partly not. The blue bags arrived today. In the next few weeks, they’ll start packing them up. A few weeks after that, they’ll know whether or not they can unpack them.

“It always seems to have changed a lot to me.” Her smile is still slightly awkward, even now, but nothing like the way it appears under headlines and shoved into the side of gossip columns. To Sam, it’s the thing that’s most reassuring about it.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she says, closing the door behind them, wondering if, like, the woman behind her, in a few years, she’ll be visiting this flat remembering how it used to be when they lived here. “Thank you for coming, Cherie.”

* * *

Ed knows full well that David will have been told over the intercom that his license plate has arrived, that that’s the reason the gates have swung open so smoothly for him, the black pillars rising back into place behind his car. Of course he knows that.

Then he wonders if the guards recognise him. If they’ve remembered the times he’s been here before, and he doesn’t know if he hates the thought or not.

Then he wonders if it’ll be the same guards if he visits here in the future.

He knows David knows he’s here, but there’s still a part of him that wonders if the door’s going to open or not, and he doesn’t know which one he’s hoping for.

Then the door opens and Cameron’s standing there, in a dark blue polo shirt, his collar open, top button unfastened, and Ed knows which he was hoping for. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Ed.” Cameron’s eyes dart back and forth for just a second, the slightest hint of nervousness, and Ed wonders if anyone else would have picked up on it. “Ed. Come in.”

* * *

_ Playlist _

_ Eton Rifles-The Jam _ _-“Sup up your beers and collect your fags/There’s a row going on down near Slough…Thought you were smart when you took them on/But you didn’t take a peep in your artillery room/All that rugby puts hairs on your chest/What chance have you got against a tie and a crest?/Hello, hooray/What a nice day/For the Eton rifles, Eton rifles/Hello-hoorary, I hope rain stops play/With the Eton rifles, Eton rifles/Thought you were clever when you lit the fuse/Tear down the House of Commons in your brand new shoes/Compose a revolutionary sympathy/Then went to bed with a charming young thing/Hello, hooray/Cheers then, mate, it’s the Eton rifles, Eton rifles…What a catalyst you turned out to be/Loaded the guns then you run off home for your tea/Left me standing, like a guilty schoolboy/We came out of it naturally the worst/Beaten and bloody and I was sick down my shirt/We were no match for their untamed wit/Though some of the lads said they’ll be back next week/Hello-hooray, there’s a price to pay/To the Eton rifles, Eton rifles”_

 _ Gold Coins-Charli XCX-“ _ _My grills are so neat, drip icy cold/Got offshore bank accounts and diamond blue palm trees/My platinum troubles, I’ll drown them in pink champagne/Escape into the sky in my own private jet/That’s what I dream of in my head..Richness and Bentleys, that’s how I roll/These rock stars buy me pearls topped off with rubies rare/I stack it so high, build a pretty green castle wall/I’ll hide inside my fortress, smoking in my bed/That’s what I dream of in my head/Gold coins everywhere/Dollars up in the air, it’s a billionaire’s love affair/Gold coins out the window/Money pours like the rain falls/And Imma spend it like I don’t care”_

 _ M.O.N.E.Y.-The 1975-“ _ _Drink slow, to feed the nose, you know he likes to get blown/Has he got enough money to spend?/Leave no he’s to and fro he doesn’t like it when the girls go/Has he got enough money to spend?...He’s got his charm with the girls that are smoking/He takes her arm, jumps the bar, and he’s in/A broken half a glass has opened up his chin/He thinks he’s hard a powdered mouth that tastes like gin…”I’m searching you, mate, your jaw’s all over the place”/Can’t talk quick slap in the face/Yes I threw a nut but your friend’s a case”_

 _ Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine-The Killers _ _-“I know my rights, I’ve been here all day and it’s time/For me to go, so let me know if it’s alright/I just couldn’t take this, I swear I told you the truth/She couldn’t scream while I held her close/I swore I’d never let her go/Tell me what you want to know/Oh come on, oh come on, oh come on/And then you whisper in my ear/I know what you’re doing here/So come on, come on, come on/There ain’t no motive for this crime/Jenny was a friend of mine”_

 _ Transpose-Bad Suns _ _-“Sleepless nights aren’t new to me/All these thoughts are killing me…And I can’t stop, even if I wanted to/Up top, maybe I’m simply deluded/That’s right, maybe I’ve been wasting my time/All my time…And it’s true, maybe I’ve been wasting my time/Come creeping, no one can hear you now/Listen, so you can show me how/Something that I’m missing here/Softly, stab my evil dreams/Faster, help me fall asleep/No one knows, that’s how it goes/All the thoughts that we transpose…From time to time, we fall in line/But now it seems that we are blind/No one knows, that’s how it goes/All the thoughts that we transpose”_

 _ Her Tears-Bear’s Den _ _-“David don’t you understand/That all her tears, know that they are not for me/But for all the years that I have stood by your side…Not even close, no I am not the one that her heart chose/And I haven’t been in love, I needed love/You will never be alone/For you have my love/Enough to hold back the fire/That raged and it burned/You placed our trust upon the pile/Let it be known that I was always on your side/Let it be known that you were always on my mind/I won’t be coming home tonight, I won’t be coming home/I won’t be coming home tonight, I won’t be coming home”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cherie, the woman, the myth, the legend.)  
> The Budget:https://tinyurl.com/s8k6shj<  
> George and Liberty's close bond:https://tinyurl.com/uwow3y4  
> Liberty's memories of George and Frances writing:https://tinyurl.com/qlnodns  
> https://tinyurl.com/vy8yfsa  
> Liberty watching her dad at his Budgets:https://tinyurl.com/vj7pkj5  
> George and Liberty together:https://tinyurl.com/rbpcb53  
> George being appointed Shadow Chancellor:https://tinyurl.com/ud495zf  
> The distance between George and Frances:https://tinyurl.com/y6ffo8vm  
> https://tinyurl.com/uu7lvng  
> Nancy's memory of the kids playing while the Syria fallout was happening between David and Ed:https://tinyurl.com/y7so4p6d  
> Nancy's dress:https://tinyurl.com/upbr8st  
> Samantha's working for Jasper Conran:https://tinyurl.com/r9x43ro  
> https://tinyurl.com/qt3rdn5  
> https://tinyurl.com/uzjo89z  
> https://tinyurl.com/rys9opc  
> Ed complaining about George's "two kitchens" jibe:https://tinyurl.com/vtqy5r7  
> David and Ed wearing the same suits:https://tinyurl.com/yx469k7f  
> Iris was the heiress to the combined Goldsmith and Rothschild fortunes, two of the richest families in Britain. She very sadly passed away in July 2019, at the age of 15:https://tinyurl.com/svrksny  
> https://tinyurl.com/rexeh8e  
> https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/we-loved-her-fiercely-parents-of-iris-goldsmith-15-speak-of-their-spectacular-daughter-who-wanted-to-a4193896.html  
> https://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/parenting/no-amount-money-can-inure-against-pain-losing-child-tragic-death/  
> https://tinyurl.com/yy9asbo6  
> https://tinyurl.com/yxyfm67a  
> https://tinyurl.com/w42m6za  
> https://tinyurl.com/y448nccq  
> Michael's liking for rapping:https://tinyurl.com/u8ae46m  
> Some of David and Ed B's rivalry:https://tinyurl.com/upm73ng  
> The Harmsworths at the Jasper Conran event:https://tinyurl.com/sgkwqu6  
> https://tinyurl.com/ugz33wo  
> The Conran Italia launch:https://tinyurl.com/qlmqdlt  
> The Harmsworths friendship with the Camerons and Goves:https://tinyurl.com/wjlozrh  
> https://tinyurl.com/wk2x8xw  
> https://tinyurl.com/rptutzw  
> Ben being Michael's adviser:https://tinyurl.com/w8q6r3o  
> https://tinyurl.com/spvj5ms  
> Iris' parents' divorce a few years before and her father's remarriage:https://bit.ly/39B5jO2  
> https://bit.ly/3dIAryt  
> http://dailym.ai/3axNYqQ  
> https://bit.ly/2UV2Fxg  
> https://tinyurl.com/w3qvw6s  
> https://tinyurl.com/tmpxjla  
> https://tinyurl.com/quhbu84  
> https://tinyurl.com/quhbu84  
> A reminder of some of Peter and George's previous interplay:https://tinyurl.com/w7jl384  
> https://tinyurl.com/u7mkheg  
> https://tinyurl.com/r33bngb  
> The Cameron kids meeting Anna Wintour and other fashion designers:https://tinyurl.com/s27gb8m  
> https://tinyurl.com/vxyv8h6  
> https://tinyurl.com/vt6wur3  
> https://tinyurl.com/t9gsnto  
> Alastair having a photo of George on his fridge:https://tinyurl.com/ukv55el  
> Jonathan listening in to Tony and Gordon's calls:https://bit.ly/2R3U7mG  
> Peter calling George "Boy George":https://bit.ly/2Juxeoj  
> https://bit.ly/3bL21to  
> Danny and everyone else up messing PMQs without George's help:https://tinyurl.com/vrb4cav  
> Some of Alastair and George's camaraderie:https://tinyurl.com/vyc9tnl  
> https://tinyurl.com/tos34kz  
> Peter's house:https://tinyurl.com/ukym8dw  
> The Hicks girls:https://tinyurl.com/v5x6965  
> https://tinyurl.com/t68ph36  
> Ellie and Luke are Anna Wintour's niece and nephew:https://tinyurl.com/vvfwkys  
> https://tinyurl.com/tmqugs7


	12. Traversing Time-Zones, Matriarchal Memories And The Pitfalls Of Political Protest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which hunger strikes only apply to snacks, penguins are tools of anger management, and lions are essential."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! Three months late. I am SO SORRY, GUYS. Things have been hectic with the pandemic and work and furloughing and everything else, and so this was falling behind! And also, there was a certain REVELATION about GIDEON, was there not, which meant I decided to rework some scenes. So that is the REASON for this being abominably late. (Also, I temporarily put some of my other Political RPF fics on private, so don't worry, they haven't disappeared!:))  
> Thanks so, so, so much to everyone who reads this and comments on it-I love you guys so much, honestly. There are a lot of notes for this one-partly because the photos corresponding with Lib's memories of George's 40th birthday are adorable and partly because you guys will want to see all the references referring to the aforementioned REVELATION. (Gideon, we are Most Disappointed, as all you guys who I converse with on Tumblr frequently already know...) So I included a couple of the references here to make room. Also, some of the Cherie quotes are right at the end, for background info and bc she's awesome.  
> This chapter also has the filming Dave did at his countryside home, so once again there's video linked at the end. If you can't read any of the articles linked and want to, send me a message and I'll get them to you somehow! :)  
> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
> If you guys want to ask me anything about the fic, send me an ask or a message on my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) ! Love hearing from you guys!  
> Enjoy the chapter-and leave a comment if you like it!  
> Dave mentioned riding during their holidays on Jura:https://bbc.in/2VG7SdK  
> Kiddington is Jemima Goldsmith's country home:https://bit.ly/38nfxTf  
> http://dailym.ai/2YUvkWL  
> Yvette & Ed B & the "lasagna plot": http://dailym.ai/3eVzmDF  
> http://dailym.ai/3gmkyya  
> Cherie's infamous "hair photo":https://tinyurl.com/y9d2ozzc

_One visitor to Chequers who had been hosted by both Brown and Cameron at the PM’s rural retreat noted the contrast: **“Gordon would greet you in a full carriage-built suit then go round the children’s table asking them what they were reading. Dave wore jeans and a casual shirt and looked as if he’d lived there all his life.”** The Osbornes were no less at home at Dorneywood, the grace-and-favour Georgian mansion in Buckinghamshire: guests at the weekend would find themselves recruited to impromptu shows scripted and directed by the Chancellor’s children, complete with costumes and props. On Sunday morning walks in the surrounding woodland, he would take calls from the PM, agreeing the lines-to-take on the stories in the weekend press…David Cameron, dressed in casual black shirt and jeans, strode across the lawn of Dorneywood, enjoying the early-evening sun, and greeted the guests gathering for his host’s party. It was Saturday, 18 June 2011, and George Osborne had invited friends to celebrate his fortieth birthday at the Chancellor’s grace-and-favour home in Buckinghamshire (a few weeks late, in fact: he had begun his fifth decade on 23 May.) The Prime Minister had just spoken by phone to Nicolas Sarkozy about progress in Libya, and was amused by the French President’s gung-ho demands-which he duly mimicked: **“Zere must be more of ze raids! More raids!”**_

_Osborne’s (then) wife, Frances, teased him that the party was an opportunity to marry himself-a celebration of his all-round wonderfulness-a joke the Chancellor had the good sense to repeat in his after-dinner speech. A cake with an image of his face in the icing was brought out and the host, Cameron and Hague chatted quietly for a moment amid the blue balloons as the revelry continued. The next-door squash court had been converted into a disco for the evening. Pictures were taken of the assembled veterans of Hague’s leadership years-Osborne, Daniel Finkelstein (by then a senior executive at The Times), Baroness (Tina) Stowell and the Foreign Secretary himself. A coalition governing in times of austerity enjoys few moments of celebration, its grip on power always provisional and uncertain. But more than one guest remarked that the Conservative Party was at last permitting itself to believe that it had escaped thirteen years of Opposition-albeit by an unconventional route_.- _In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_In among the manifesto’s big-ticket items are lots of smaller ones. I personally think that Jo’s (Johnson’s) efforts to think out of the box are very commendable-like his programme of lidos for seaside towns. Or his plans to build a new forest in the North of England, or introduce a ban on circus animals. George is less convinced. Why would you need a swimming pool by the sea? Or a new forest in a land of trees? And his kids like the hungry-looking lions. Surely we shouldn’t even be wasting time on this small stuff anyway. What is the big message we are trying to convey? The misfit between Jo and George intensifies when Jo ventures, unwisely, into matters fiscal. A volcanic eruption from George sends most of the private office under their desks and Jo into an orbit from which it is possible he has never entirely returned.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_There are three proposed debates, or, more precisely, **“television events.”** Firstly, a Paxman interview, followed by questions from a live studio audience, for potential prime ministers only (David Cameron and Ed Miliband). Secondly, a debate for party leaders-all seven of them. And finally, a Question Time special with Dimbleby, to which Nick Clegg, Ed Miliband, and David are invited. **“This is the best deal you are going to get”** says Craig-and we agree.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Osborne sought to accelerate any momentum eked out of the Carney coup by shaking up his team of advisers. Neil O'Brien arrived from Policy Exchange to offer roving policy counsel and a steering hand on the election manifesto. (Poppy) Mitchell-Rose made way for Thea Rogers of the BBC, who set about sprucing up Osborne's image with a half-mod, half-Caesar haircut. This involved some subterfuge: the Chancellor had no idea how much hair was being lopped off his head as he sat for the stylist, with whom Rogers had secretly conferred earlier. She also advised Osborne to be seen outside of Westminster more often, an idea that would transform his diary. He had always taken the Millwall line on his image: **no one likes me, I don't care.** He could now see that, for an elected politician, this was a dereliction of duty. His curiosity was also piqued by a conversation with an old hand from the Reagan White House, who said that mastery of visual communication lay in choosing an image to convey and sticking to it. Reagan's asset was his toughness on defence and his liability was his age, so his team arranged photo opportunities with uniformed generals or with beaming youngsters. Most other requests were given short shrift. Working on this logic, Osborne started scheduling visits to business and construction sites, and almost nowhere else. The image to promote was one of dogged purpose. When he started being teased for the hard hats and the fluorescent coats and the pointing at things, his team knew it was, in Westminster's parallel language, **"cutting through."** He now goes on these excursions twice a week, sometimes more.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_He had already dated Kate Fall, his former CRD comrade, when, in July, George Bridges invited a group of friends to a dinner party at his parents' home in Surrey. Among them were Osborne and a financial analyst named Frances Howell, whose father David had served as a Cabinet minister under Margaret Thatcher. They were a pretty pair and formed a connection over dinner, as Howell, who yearned to write for a living, found Osborne reading animatedly to her from a newspaper._

_She was taken by his passion for the life he was building for himself, he by her spark and maturity. Although Osborne harboured a juvenile streak-even challenging another Magdalen alumnus to a wasabi-eating contest at a Japanese restaurant that summer, emerging victorious but doubled-over in agony-he was actually drawn to **"intellectually self-made women"** , says a peer. His female friends, such as the historian Amanda Foreman, were **“more Bloomsbury than Knightsbridge.”** Howell was two years older than Osborne, and at least as clever. She also had an even wider circle of friends, including Catherine Ostler, a former flatmate who would go on to edit Tatler, and Simone Finn, now a special adviser in the government and a one-time girlfriend of Michael Gove. Osborne and Howell began dating seriously. Within two years, they would marry.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_No. 10 is more than just an office for those who work there; it takes up so much of your time that it comes to signify a way of life. The pace is relentless and the work all-consuming. The time I spent working on “Project Cameron” covered a good part of my daughter and son’s childhood-they were 6 and 3 when I started, and 17 and 14 when it was all over…My children are 11 and 8 when I start working at No. 10. They come to visit for the first time one Friday after school. Michael, my favourite Front of House, devises a special “ghost tour”, lining up some of the others to jump out at them from under sheets. It’s all very exciting, seeing the famous house and my new offices. Also a bit strange, because No. 10 is that odd hybrid-an official residence, a family house, and mummy’s office. Just as it consumes me, it begins to pull them in too…We all seem quite wrapped up together. Even to the point where our children seem to follow the same nit cycles. This can sometimes take its toll on others, and other relationships. Relationships collapse. Some under the stress of never being put first. Some from the preoccupation of running the country, and the uncertainties this brings. Three marriages break down after the 2010 election (including my own).- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

**_Café Lisboa, 14 July 2016_ **

_It is a warm summer morning. My children and I set off for a short walk up the road. David is waiting for us with Nancy, his eldest daughter, at a Portuguese café he is fond of. A few minutes later we are joined by George. We sit outside, sipping our coffees, the children eating pasteis de nata (the house speciality). Yesterday, George Osborne was Chancellor of the Exchequer, David Cameron was Prime Minister, and I was his deputy chief of staff. Today we are unemployed…_

_As we sip our coffees in the morning sun, we know we have paid the price for that failure, and yet the full impact of the (referendum) defeat has not yet sunk in, either for us or for the nation. We are at a point halfway between immediate acceptance and the full realisation of what it all actually means. This is to come, day by day, as the ramifications cascade around us._

_My children have been brought up with “Project Cameron.” **“The good news”** I tell them, “ **is you don’t have to stand up for the government at school anymore.”** -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

**_Home, the kitchen_ **

_I arrive home, facing three days of enforced silence, feeling morose. I cheer myself up by getting my iPad to convert anything I type into a Stephen Hawking voice. Over dinner with the family I’m reduced to pleading with them to stop me from giggling as it might dislodge my newly installed prop. What got me going was typing **“Ho, ho, ho”** so that my iPad Hawking laughs for me, and then getting him to read **“Romeo, Romeo”** , followed by a few favourite chants from the terraces at Old Trafford._

**_Home, the kitchen_ **

_The morning after the op I am sitting in the kitchen surrounded by a pile of signs made for me by a friend and a small hand bell for summoning assistance. Each sign has a request written on it- **“A cup of tea, please”, “I need a beer”, “Pass the remote control”** and even **“I need a cuddle.”** I write an additional sign demanding dumb obedience. I can’t see that one lasting the morning…._

**_Home_ **

_And lo, it came to pass that he said_ **_“Let there be a deal”_ ** _and it was so. Cameron has finally got his way. It has just been announced that there will be just one election debate, weeks before polling day, featuring seven political leaders, a number of whom many viewers will not even recognize, let alone have the option to vote for. There will be no head-to-head with Miliband but the Labour leader will have to face a line-up of his enemies-the Greens, UKIP and the Scottish Nationalists-without the comforting presence of Cameron._

_Ed, Nick, Nigel, Nicola and co. all feel that the broadcasters have succumbed to bullying from Number 10. The broadcasters, on the other hand, hail a victory. The principle of leaders’ debates at election time has been upheld. Mmmm. Just._

_I text the Number 10 communications director, Craig Oliver, to suggest that, given his role in screwing the whole thing up, he’s owed at least a pay rise, if not a peerage._

_Next time we need to do a whole lot better than this.-“Thursday 19 th March-Friday 20th March-Saturday 21st March 2015”, Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain’s Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

**_The flat above the shop_ **

_It’s almost 6.30am. Work is just beginning. On the kitchen table a box of Weetabix promises to_ **_“fuel your day.”_ ** _Next to it is a child’s toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. It’s organic. The eye is drawn to the details: the immaculate graphite kitchen cabinets, the gleaming coffeemaker, the modern art on the walls. This is a home straight out of the pages of a glossy magazine. At this hour only one of the family is up and awake. And on camera. He is reading, then signing, a pile of letters, each removed from and put back into a large, battered, red leather box which sits on the kitchen table._ **_“I normally do this in my dressing gown”_ ** _he jokes. Now, that would have made an irresistible start to my report on BBC News at 10._

_The clock on the wall is a reminder of why we’ve been allowed a look through the keyhole of 10 Downing Street. It shows not just the time but the date: 8 May 2014. In exactly a year the man with whom I am to spend the day-and will be watching for much of the next 365 days-will know if he will be staying or leaving. David Cameron will be thinking about what to say to the country, to his party and to his family on the morning after the election night before. For most people in Britain what will be at issue is who will be leading the country. For the three young children who live high above the famous black door, it will be whether they need to pack their things and prepare to move out of what has become home._

_That day twelve months from now is one I know I won’t ever forget, either. Just the thought of it makes me shiver a little. It will begin as the polls close at ten o’clock on 7 May, the start of a twenty-four-hour continuous shift. First I will sit alongside David Dimbleby trying to make sense of the exit polls, the early results, the signs of who might be prepared to do deals with whom. Then it will be on to the breakfast radio and TV programmes. Finally, I’ll be back at Downing Street to witness the transfer of power-one family moving in, another moving out-or Cameron’s victory speech, or, if the result is uncertain, the parade of officials, advisers, negotiators and takeaway food that marks the process of deal-making.-“Thursday 8 th May 2014”, Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain’s Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

**_The flat above the shop, 10 Downing Street_ **

_Through the familiar black door, down the corridor, up the stairs until we reach the front door of what ten-year-old Nancy Cameron calls the family’s_ **_“pretend home.”_ ** _Inside it feels anything but. Sam Cam gives her guests-Pippa, me and a couple who write for the papers-a quick tour. We’re shown the kitchen, which was rebuilt to give a view of the garden so she wouldn’t have to look down on people endlessly blabbing about what her husband is up to. The modern art is a legacy of the last residents. Gordon and Sarah have not been back for dinner in their old place, though Brown is a new ally and adviser in the battle for Scotland. But Cherie and Kathryn Blair did recently come for tea._

_The PM is remarkably relaxed, despite the fact that on the menu for dinner conversation are the imminent possibilities of the break-up of the UK (he has just been to Balmoral and had the uncomfortable task of explaining to the queen why the referendum no one thought could be lost now might be), war in Iraq and a new cold war with Russia. Not that much further down the track is the prospect of having to call in the removal men and find a real home to live in…As we leave I pause to look around and wonder what the Milibands might alter.-“Monday 8 th September 2014”, Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain’s Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_I slept very patchily, partly out of worry, partly because Grace was not well. I was going over some of the questions and answers in my mind, and getting more and more angry. I had a bath at 5.30 and Grace was there, throwing her little penguins into the water. The lawyers had advised me to have a sharp object to spike into the palm of my hand if I felt my temper rising and I asked Grace if I could take her baby penguin...At home, the kids were brilliant. I told them I had squeezed Grace's penguin and thought of them whenever I thought I was losing my temper, and Rory looked really proud and happy...Maybe because I was more confident about the outcome, I was more antagonistic towards him and the penguin in my pocket was getting the treatment. By the time I'd finished, I had a huge red welt in the palm of my hand....Mum and Dad were down for Grace's birthday party. It is amazing how much comfort and strength I get from the children in times of stress and difficulty._ - _"Thursday 25th April-Friday 26th April-Sunday 28th April 1996"_ , _ The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

 _We arrived as the boys (David Miliband's sons) were finishing their tea. Did the usual **"What did you all do for Xmas?"** routine and it was not long before we were picking up the negative vibes about Ed M, especially from Louise. When she and Fiona were giving the boys a bath later, she was apparently even more scathing. Ed had been busy cultivating the Guardianistas so that when Copenhagen failed he was somehow seen as a success...There would be a moment where he and Ed M were going to have to decide whether they went for it or not. **"I will book Granita's"** I said. **"It's not there any more"** said Amanda. DM was nodding along to a lot of what I said. So was Louise, especially when I said he needed far stronger people around him, and he needed a network of supporters and message carriers round the country....He had to really want it and have the operation to go for it if Ed M was getting himself into a better position. He nodded at that too. Fiona asked if they could envisage running against each other. He said not. I said don't rule it out, at least to yourself. Louise looked a bit lost. There was a lot of black humour about what Hague and Ffion would do with this place. We were joking too about the tablecloth which they had not cleaned over Christmas. I said the cleaners were off pressing Hague's suit. It was a nice evening, but a bit depressing._- _"Tuesday 29th December 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Over to the media centre. Did Sky and Beeb and a general chat. Kay Burley (Sky presenter) said it was all about body language. I took the mick mercilessly on that which she took in good nature. I was pushing substance. Had to be man v boys tonight. Had a little chat with Osborne downstairs. The guys with me said he was shaking when I went over to him. I quite liked Osborne actually. Yes a Tory toff but he was very political and he really knew what he thought whereas I'm not sure that Cameron did....I scribbled a line to take on the debates analysis and then we swarmed the spin room. I did one with Osborne which was quite fun though far too short...George was pushing it a bit when he said that it was a clear win for DC, but there you go.-"Thursday 22nd April 2010", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_While Miliband’s movie was aired less than a week before polling day, Cameron made his first appearance in a Tory election broadcast at the very beginning of the campaign, on 30 March. He was shown on the touchline at a children’s football match, cheering on his son, as he said,_ **_“like any parent.”_ ** _Later, the camera moved in slow motion over a soft-focus tableau of the PM and his smiling wife Samantha, her hair slightly awry, as they ate a family meal with their children around an ordinary-looking table. The contrasting broadcasts reveal the weaknesses that Labour and the Conservatives saw in their own candidates for Prime Minister. Miliband’s “portrait” showed him in his suit and tie, striding purposefully towards his destiny, through the corridors of power and into the House of Commons. The struggle was to show a man with authority, a nation’s leader in waiting. For Cameron, however, all the effort was focused on showing him as an ordinary dad watching his son play football; “in touch” on the touchline. It is, of course, far easier to portray yourself as Prime Minister material if you are already Prime Minister. Grant Shapps says Cameron’s personal lead over Miliband became more important as the campaign drew to its close and voters had to make their decisions: **“The leadership issue crystallised the choice.”**_ _- Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_Yet, one week before the full-time election campaign began, David Cameron did more than Labour ever achieved to undermine his own chances of winning a second term as Prime Minister. In an unguarded moment during an interview with the BBC’s James Landale, a fellow Old Etonian, he confessed to having no desire to fight another election in 2020. **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat”** the Prime Minister said, while chopping vegetables in his kitchen with Landale. **“Two are wonderful, but three might just be too many.”** The election after next may seem like a distant prospect to many voters, but it is a highly dangerous thing for any political leader to put a shelf life on his or her career. What made it potentially fatal for Cameron was the fact that the Tories were fighting as the party with the **“long-term”** plan for the economy and the country. Cameron’s admission that he would be gone before the end of the next parliament (so a new Tory leader could be chosen) comprehensively undermined the message of stability and continuity that formed the basis of his offer to the electorate. How could there be a long-term plan when, for the Prime Minister, there was no “long term”?_

_Craig Oliver, the Downing Street communications director, was beside himself after the PM’s gaffe. He knew how badly it would play out in the media and left his boss in no doubt about how he felt. Lynton Crosby was also dismayed. He feared that Labour would seize on Cameron’s lapse and that it would become the key question of the entire election. And all because the PM was not disciplined enough to dodge a journalist’s question over his own future during a friendly television interview at home in his kitchen. A **“sheepish”** Cameron knew how dangerous his mistake could prove. One senior source says: **“It could have been huge. It could have been defining in the campaign. But Labour completely failed to grab it.”** -Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_On the Monday of the last week of the Parliament, the BBC aired an interview with the Prime Minister in which he was asked how long he wanted to remain in Number 10. He made it clear that he would stay for a full second term,_ **_“but I think after that it will be time for a new leadership.”_ ** _(He added: **“I’m not saying all prime ministers necessarily go mad or even go mad at the same rate.”)**_ **_“Terms are like shredded wheat”_ ** _, he said:_ **_“two are wonderful, but three might just be too many.”_ ** _The interviewer, fellow Old Etonian James Landale, had not been tipped-the-wink to ask the question, and the story caused consternation among Cameron’s aides and surprised his media team. The aim of the interview had been for the Prime Minister to rule out standing down after any proposed EU referendum, not to announce that he would do so by the end of the Parliament._ **_“Sometimes”_ ** _, Landale said,_ **_“you ask a politician a question and they answer. It’s a rare occasion.”_ ** _The filming had been done on the preceding Saturday, but Craig Oliver had not been present and the Conservatives did not make their own audio recording of the interview. The party initially tried to argue that the Prime Minister was-as planned-simply ruling out standing down after the referendum, but the transcript of the interview made that line untenable…David Cameron was in his tenth year as party leader and fifth as Prime Minister, so was already reasonably well known to a voting public, who, by the time of the general election, were likely to have formed an opinion of him. For media detractors such as Kevin Maguire, **“cynical”**_ _Cameron was **“the posh boy who vowed to mend what he called a Broken Britain”** (Daily Mirror, 30 March). The Prime Minister appeared keen to counter such criticisms through favourable press coverage. On one occasion, when he was supposedly having a **“day off”** campaigning, he was photographed bottle-feeding a small farm animal and the image widely disseminated by various newspapers ( **“Lamb Cam! PM with Lamb”** , Daily Mail, 6 April.) An informal-looking Cameron was also interviewed alongside colleague, friend and potential successor George Osborne **(“The Blue Brothers”** , The Sun, 1 April.) Following on from her high-profile role during the last campaign, Samantha Cameron made prominent appearances in newspapers sympathetic to the Conservatives. The Sun published a two-page spread in which the Prime Minister’s wife talked about their late son **(“SAM CAM.I.AM.”** , 6 April.) The impact of caring for their disabled child informed the headlines of both her interview with the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph in which family photographs of the couple’s children were used to illustrate the features ( **“Dave and Sam: Our Crisis Over Ivan”** , Daily Mail, 6 April; **“The Strain Of Caring for Ivan Took Dave and Me to the Limit”** , Daily Telegraph, 6 April.)-The British General Election Of 2015, Philip Cowley & Dennis Kavanagh_

 _Cameron himself has inadvertently raised the stakes on his own future in an interview six weeks before, on 23 March. James Landale, a fellow Old Etonian and the BBC deputy political editor standing in for the sick Nick Robinson, had put an awkward question to Cameron, and he had answered it. As an aide says, “ **James had been very charming and beguiling all day, and had asked him earlier by a sports pitch what his personal intentions for the future were. Cameron parried it, but when he came back to the house, Sam was there and he finds it harder to conceal the full truth with her present.”**_ _Cameron blurted out that **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat-two are wonderful but three might just be too many.”** The admission that if he wins the general election he will not stand again, even if widely known in the Westminster village, sends shock waves through the whole political system, and as a disclosure coming on the eve of the campaign it is inept, if not worse. He is only being honest in admitting that he will not stand again, and feels it is the right thing to say, but it raises the question: when will he go? In 2019? 2018? 2017? He hopes his admission of the elephant in the room might reduce pressure on him to go. This is naïve. It has intensified it.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_I had agreed to do an “at home” broadcast feature with the BBC’s James Landale-an opportunity to cover politics, life, the bigger picture, while hopefully showing people the real me. We were filmed watching Elwen play football for the Chadlington under-10s, and did the interview in my kitchen, as we chopped lettuce and Samantha pottered about in the background. Would I stand for a third term, James asked casually. **“No”** I replied without hesitating. I explained that I was standing for a full second term, that I had a lot more to do, but that there comes a time in politics when a fresh pair of eyes is needed. I cited the talents of Theresa May, George Osborne and Boris Johnson. **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat-two are wonderful, but three might just be too many”** I said, referencing the 1980s advert. I thought I had done the right thing. I had been honest. I had confirmed, despite suggestions to the contrary, that I would serve a full second term. But I was clear that I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of some of my predecessors, whose premierships were cautionary tales of the dangers of clinging on.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Then Andy has a sort of “surrogate” meltdown about Samantha’s outfit for the next day (he is actually anxious about David delivering his speech from memory.) She is not yet in the habit of finding a “conference dress.” We show Andy the options, which, in his eyes, fall short. Always with an eye to the photos, he wants bright colours, and Samantha has chosen elegant black. He charges furiously down the hotel corridor and demands to see my wardrobe. I am about five inches shorter than her, but Andy is undeterred. Flicking through my dresses he turns and says:_ **_“That’s the one.”_ ** _And in that horrible moment I realise that he is referring to the dress I am wearing. A favourite, it is black and white with angels and hearts all over it. Apparently, I have no say in the matter. Dress duly handed over, Samantha takes to the stage, looking much better in it than me.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_I told them that I hadn’t made up my mind about what we were going to do. Above all, I said, we didn’t want to disrupt the children too much, and certainly didn’t want to move their school. Nicky was in his last term at St Joan of Arc so in the back of my mind, I was thinking that we would possibly stay at least till the end of term and maybe we’d move in over the summer. Apart from the hall, Number 11 had plenty of light and the rooms were all high-ceilinged and generally spacious. As we walked round, I realised that it was a good deal bigger than Richmond Crescent (the Blairs’ family home). Yes, it was very old-fashioned-it had last been done up many years before with an unattractive mustard-coloured carpet and flock wallpaper-but we’d already been told it could be redecorated. The worst thing was the haze of cigar smoke that clung to everything. It was like going into a jazz club on a Sunday evening before the cleaners arrived, Kenneth Clarke’s last, all-too-enduring legacy._

_The children, however, were entranced. They’d discovered a secret spiral staircase that led directly to the garden. And what a garden!_ **_“It’s as big as the park”_ ** _I overheard an excited Kathryn telling a friend later. The bedrooms had already been divvied up. Shrieks of_ **_“bags I have this one!”_ ** _rang out from upstairs. Euan had gone for one with an enormous desk only to discover later that once the desk had been removed, the room itself was smaller than his younger brother’s. The problem with the bedrooms was the lack of storage beyond a series of heavy mahogany wardrobes that smelt of mothballs and cedar. My heart sank at the sight of the kitchen. It might have been state-of-the-art in the sixties, but that was then. The sink had ancient taps you could barely get a kettle under, and everything was incredibly utilitarian and bleak, with a beaten-up pine table in the middle. Then every so often it would hit me: what was I thinking of, complaining about taps, when our little family was about to embark on an extraordinary voyage? In some ways I was too overwhelmed to take it all in, and needed the children’s excitement to bring home what had really happened and where we were. Tony was Prime Minister! This was Downing Street! Who cared about taps! -Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_I can't remember now exactly what time the bell went, sometime around eight thirty. Ros (the Blairs' nanny) was two floors up, still asleep-officially she was off-duty at weekends-and as nobody else was getting it, I pressed the intercom._

_**"Flower delivery for you, Mrs Blair."** It was one of the policemen._

_**"Can't you just put them inside the door?"** _

_**"'Fraid not. I'm here on my own."** _

_I padded down to the front door and opened it, yawning, hair like a bird's nest, and bleary-eyed._

_Everyone now knows what awaited me outside. Every tabloid editor in the world knew exactly what picture would go on their front page that Sunday, and the photographer no doubt made a fortune. The flowers turned out to be from the governing body of St Joan of Arc (the Blair childrens' primary school.) It was really sweet of them, but I'm sure they wish it hadn't happened the way it did. I can laugh at it now. If the marketing people wanted me to be like the woman in the street, they couldn't have planned it better. So perhaps in the end it didn't matter but as I shut the door, I remember leaning my forehead against the back of it, my eyes closed, thinking, **Oh my God, Tony will kill me.** I could just hear him saying, **"How could you be so stupid as to go down in your nightdress without even putting on a dressing gown."** In fact, he didn't. He had more pressing matters to attend to.-Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

* * *

_But that was what they’d agreed. It would help them. Yes, it would help in a political sense. The Mail On Sunday was the best-selling mid-market in the country. And the demography of its readers perfectly overlapped their key seat target demographic. Plus it was a woman’s magazine. And everyone knew they had a bit of a woman problem. But it would help both of them. People would get to see who they were. Or they’d get to see who Samantha was, and then through seeing her, they’d see a bit more of him. The real him._

_It hadn’t been easy to arrange, though. And he was glad of that. There were some political wives (and husbands) he knew who would bite your hand off for the chance of a Mail On Sunday feature. Samantha wasn’t one of those wives. _

_They talked about it several times. How_ **_“the guys”_ ** _had wondered if she’d be interested in doing a little bit more press? Obviously, she already had her charity work. But they’d been thinking maybe she could do something around the local elections. Perhaps follow her about on the campaign trail. And she’d agreed. In her own way._ **_“I’m happy to”_ ** _she’d told them,_ **_“but if I do you have to understand I’m going to be saying what I want to say, not necessarily what you want me to say. So if that’s OK with you, fine.”_ ** _So they’d set that one aside for a while. But_ **_“the guys”_ ** _kept coming back to it. They had figures that showed Samantha added an extra two points to their national poll rating, they said. They didn’t have anything of the kind, of course. But it was a nice line, so they started floating it out there anyway. And they kept coming back to the women issue. Labour were overhyping it, yes. But there was something there. The idea that women found him a bit slick and phony. This could be a way of counteracting that._

 _And, of course, there was the NHS issue. They called it the NHS issue. They said it would be helpful if they could_ **_“flesh out”_ ** _his stance on the NHS. Another phrase they used was_ **_“humanize”_ ** _his position._

_What they meant was, he should sit down and talk about the death of his son. And that Samantha should sit down and talk about the death of her son.- One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Ask any politician and they’d tell you protecting the family was the hardest part of politics. And they’d tell you in exactly that way, in precisely those terms. The imperative to protect. But it wasn’t true. The hardest part of being a politician wasn’t working out how to protect your family. It was about working out how to use your family._

_That was what made it so complicated. If you really wanted to protect the family, you could do. Obviously you couldn’t insulate them from the abuse you received. But you could at least keep them safe. You just said they were out of bounds. No photos. No news footage. You didn’t take them to any political events. You didn’t use them in any PPBs. You didn’t have them on your campaign material, or on your Christmas cards. And that would be it. The Bubble Breathers would moan, but they’d respect the no-fly zone. The family would be out of harm’s way. People would literally not know what they looked like._

_And the Bubble Breathers and the spinners and the pollsters would all say,_ **_“This is not helping X’s image. People want to know their politicians have proper lives.”_ ** _But it was rubbish. Because people do have proper lives. Lives that don’t extend to worrying about what Joe Bloggs Politician’s kids look like._

 _So when he heard politicians saying,_ **_“The hardest thing is to protect the family”_ ** _, he knew it wasn’t true. Even when he heard himself saying it. Politicians used their families because they thought it would give them an edge. And thar was what he had to wrestle with. How much of an edge did he want? How much of an edge did he need? How much of an edge could he manufacture, and still look at himself in that long mirror by his desk?- One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

 _There were different ways of managing it. One was that you hid behind the team. So there would be the ritual like they’d gone through with Samantha and the local elections. Craig and a couple of other people from The League would sit down with him and explain how they needed more of the family. And he’d say no. Which they knew he’d say. And then they’d hand him a list of things they wanted from Sam and the kids. And he’d say absolutely not. Which they also knew he’d say. Then they’d say,_ **_“Well look, what about this little thing at the bottom of the list. Can we at least try that?”_ ** _And he’d say,_ **_“OK, I’ll try. I’ll have a chat with Sam. But I’m telling you, she isn’t going to go for it.”_ ** _Sometimes she would. Sometimes she wouldn’t. But they’d tried. He’d tried._

 _The other thing was to mentally picture yourself in the midst of a sort of spousal arms race. So someone from The League would come to him and say,_ **_“The word around the lobby is the Mirror’s going to be doing a feature with Ed’s wife. They’re going to be talking her up as “Miliband’s secret weapon.” Just thought you ought to know.”_ ** _And then someone else would come up to him and casually say,_ **_“Have you seen Miliband’s Christmas card? Got Justine and the boys on it. Looks quite nice actually.”_ ** _Gradually, they were ratcheting it up. And he was thinking,_ **_“OK, I know what me and Sam agreed. But if he’s going to be putting the wife and kids out there, it’s going to start to look quite odd if I don’t do it.”_ **

_One problem with this approach was Nick Clegg. Nick-and this was a very “Nick thing”, though he did admire him for it- wouldn’t go there at all. Zero access to the boys. The odd photo or interview with Miriam maybe. But nothing with Miguel and Antonio and Alberto. Sam knew this as well.- One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_But eventually they’d worn him down. As they always knew they would, and he always knew they would. The BBC were going to be doing features on each of the leaders. And they needed family access. Ed was giving them Justine and the kids. Even Nick was giving up his mother. They had to have something **intimate.** And so he’d begun the negotiations. With his own wife. And with himself. OK, not the flat. They could have the house in Oxfordshire. It would at least show the world they don’t live in some palatial mansion. And they could film the children. But no direct interaction with the children. And the children could only be shot from behind. And they could have a question or two with her. But only general stuff. Nothing about Ivan. They were his red lines. And he was also going to tell the BBC what they’d agreed. That this was his last election. Then they’d be done with it all. Forever._

_And that was how you justified it to yourself. You had a camera crew in your kitchen, filming your kids as they were eating their dinner. But you’d only allowed them to film the backs of their heads. Which meant you were still being a good father and husband. You were still protecting them.- One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

* * *

_I want to hold you tight and never let you go. I'll never let anything or anyone hurt you. Ever. I promise._

_How strange, but before I had you, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, as someone who'd never be able to physically hurt anyone. But I look at you and my feelings have already changed so much, it frightens me._

_For you I would die. But more scary than that, for you I would kill. I know it as surely as I know my own name. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not anyone. -Knife Edge, Malorie Blackman_

_""Just let me be normal here, Effy. Christ's sake, is it so fucking hard? Be a person for once, and not a complete twat, yeah?"_

_Effy steps back and her face goes blank. "Yeah, sure" she says. "A person."_

_Katie snorts and rolls her eyes reflexively. "You're such a fucking child, you know that?"_

_"Of course, Katie " Effy responds, her eyes narrowing. **"I'm** a child. **You're** the one who can't get over-""-Elizabeth Gone, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_Then we’d both be in Dublin, he says. I bet you’d pretend you didn’t know me if we bumped into each other._

_Marianne says nothing at first. The longer she stays silent the more nervous he feels, like maybe she really would pretend not to know him, and the idea of being beneath her notice gives him a panicked feeling, not only about Marianne personally, but about his future, about what’s possible for him._

_Then she says: I would never pretend not to know you, Connell._

_The silence becomes very intense after that. For a few seconds he lies still. Of course, he pretends not to know Marianne in school but he didn’t mean to bring that up. That’s just the way it has to be. If people found out what he has been doing with Marianne in secret, while ignoring her every day in school, his life would be over. He would walk down the hallway and people’s eyes would follow him, like he was a serial killer, or worse. His friends don’t think of him as a deviant person, a person who could say to Marianne Sheridan, in broad daylight, completely sober: Is it okay if I come in your mouth? With his friends he acts normal. He and Marianne have their own private life in his room where no one can bother them, so there’s no reason to mix up the separate worlds. Still, he can tell he has lost his footing in their discussion and left an opening for this subject to arise, though he didn’t want it to, and now he has to say something._

_Would you not? he says._

_No.- Normal People, Sally Rooney_

* * *

“We do not speak of it.” Liberty doesn’t turn round as her father throws the newspaper down onto the desk, able to picture the exact wave of his hands, the way he’s reared up in his seat. “We do not speak of it, we shall never utter a word of that headline again.”

Liberty doesn’t bother looking round. She knows her father can see her smile reflected in the glass, the same way that she knows when she stretches out her hand behind her as they walk down the street, his fingers will wrap through hers’.

“Lions” she hears him huff to himself. “Still can’t believe Jo was thinking of getting rid of them. _Lions._ They’re what makes a circus.”

Liberty, quite used to her father’s conversations with himself, stretches on tiptoes to peer out the window. It’s easier than she used to be, she notes with some satisfaction.

 _“George, you’re so Money Supermarket-“_ she sings, only to have the newspaper fly across the room at her head. She giggles, turning to look at her father over her shoulder, knowing the smile she’ll see before her eyes find his, the achingly fond smile he spares just for her. She glances between him and the grounds outside, where the grass slopes down to gravelled paths, the swimming pool tucked out of sight under a cover like a secret. Liberty remembers her dad wearing that smile years earlier, at his birthday party here, his fortieth birthday, watching her on the lawn.

One of the bodyguards had given her and Luke their walkie-talkies to play with, during the hours that seemed to stretch out and run into each other all at once while long streams of guests arrived and they waited for the Camerons and the Goves to arrive for the more familiar faces. Liberty can remember running up and down the gravel paths, her gold ballet pumps slipping loose, slapping the paths as she scampered up and down, until eventually Mum gave her her black Mary-Janes to put on instead. Her dad has a photo of her playing with the walkie-talkie-Uncle David and Auntie Sam had arrived, and Nancy was standing just out of shot, and Liberty had been showing her how to use the walkie-talkie, holding it to her ear. She’d heard the camera clicking without really being aware of it, but she’d been intensely aware, even at age seven, of her father’s gaze on her, drinking her in, as though expecting her to vanish any moment.

She’d been intensely aware, too, of the way her father swung her and Luke around the dance floor later on, her rose-gold dress flying around her as her dad and Uncle David took turns swinging her and Nancy over their shoulders. There’d been other children there, Nancy and Elwen, obviously, and Bea and Will, and Auntie Kate’s children, Olivia and Guy, and Auntie Catherine and Clemmie and Nat, though Angelica had been curled up asleep upstairs earlier than the others, blonde hair fanning around her face, thumb resting in her mouth. Her mum and dad had danced together at one point, Liberty milling around their legs with Nancy and Bea, leaning back against her father’s thigh whenever he leaned back from her mother, her mother’s words a slap of hot air against his cheek when he lifted Liberty for a moment to let her head nod over his shoulder. “Maybe next time” her mother had said, and she’d been laughing, even as Liberty had caught something else to the words, a harder edge that cut at her ears. “You can just marry yourself.”

Dad had said the same thing in his speech later on-Liberty had been more tired by then, leaning back against her mother with half-closed eyes as she listened to Dad talk-later, she’d take a seat in the middle of the dance floor in amongst the maze of legs and watch them clatter across the floor in a haze of childish half-sleep, some of them just missing her by inches. After a while, Mum would take her and Luke upstairs, joined at various points by the other kids, and they’d toddle about in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, her in her special red robe with her name spelled out on the back, until all of them sprawled in various bundles across the beanbags and four-poster bed of the room the children had been allocated, defeated by exhaustion. But when Dad had been giving his speech, she’d been leaning back against Mum, clutching her wrist, and so when Dad had glanced at her, his smile curling the corner of his mouth as he’d said “As my wife invited me to consider my second marriage-“ and laughter had rippled out through the crowd like a current, bodies waving slightly with it, Liberty had felt her mother’s arm still for the barest second, even as her fingers clutched Liberty’s hand tighter. Later, when they’d been gathered round the table to take turns having their photographs taken by Dad’s cake, Liberty had slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, clutching on to his sleeve as he leaned on the table, grinning at the camera, tilting her head into him as though at any moment he could pull away.

“It’s too cold to swim, Lib” Dad says now, pushing his red box away and dragging his chair back from behind his desk. He hasn’t needed to look to see where Liberty’s glancing.

“I know.” Liberty doesn’t say anything, waits for her father to walk up behind her, pull her back against him. She remembers watching him do the same to Auntie Poppy at that birthday party, press a careless kiss to her head, as he’d done to most of the girls and women there-Liberty only remembers that because she knows Auntie Poppy lives in America now, and she hasn’t seen her in what, she realises when she forces herself to count, is years.

Thea does Auntie Poppy’s job now. Liberty doesn’t call her Auntie Thea, and hasn’t needed to be told not to. She just knows she doesn’t want to, somewhere in her bones, even though Thea’s never said anything bad to her. The same way something curls unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach when Thea grips Dad’s shoulder for his attention, or her finger taps against his wrist. If you’d asked Liberty last year, she’d have said Mum liked Thea, but now, even if she might say the same thing, she’d pause before she’d say it. She’s seen Mum and Thea in rooms together plenty of times, but only recently when she’s been old enough to really notice adults, notice the way sometimes they move and talk around each other, conversation braided around practicalities, _would you like, we can do Wednesday, do you have his diary,_ it’s as though they’re each waiting for the other to ask a new question, something different from the others.

So instead she leans back into her father’s chest, feels him press a kiss into her dark hair, as he strokes the strands that reach her shoulders. “You’re a little miracle, Princess” he tells her, and Liberty lets herself believe him.

* * *

Sam’s waiting when he walks through the door, and David thinks he might cry.

“How did it go?” is all she says. She’s standing near him but not near enough. David wants to wrap his arms around her, bury himself in her.

“I-“

He closes his mouth, tries again. “I-“

He shakes his head and sees Sam’s eyes soften, which is somehow the worst thing about it all.

He moves into Sam’s arms, holding onto her, his face buried in her shoulder. Sam’s hand is rubbing his back, her cheek pressed against his, murmuring something David doesn’t hear, too focused on choking down the sudden emotion fighting its way out of his chest. He doesn’t cry, but he wants to.

“What happened?” she says, and all he can do is shake his head, and say “I’ll tell you-“

He tries again and all he can say is “I’ll tell you.”

Sam’s arms tighten around him momentarily, and David can tell she wants to say many different things, but all she does is hold onto him.

It’s a long time later before she leans back and says, quietly, “Craig called.”

* * *

“How does it count as a hunger strike if you’re _eating?”_ Elwen asks, watching Nancy wolf down copious amounts of buttered pancakes with a dubious expression.

Nancy looks up at him, cheeks bulging with pancake. “I’m not eating.”

Elwen arches his eyebrows, jabbing her cheek with one finger. Nancy, indignant, slaps his hand away and, with a monumental effort, swallows.

“I’m not _eating”_ she explains, once she can talk again. “This is just one of my three meals a day.”

Elwen blinks. “But it’s a hunger strike.”

Nancy nods. “Yes, from _snacks._ So I’m not eating _between_ meals.”

Elwen stares at her but is saved from responding to this by Mum coming back in with Flo, who’s got Mum’s hand half in her hair redoing her mini-ponytail, followed by Dad.

 _“Hi-“_ Nancy scrambles out of her chair, still chewing her next mouthful of pancake, and leans into Dad’s chest, her head nestling against his heartbeat.

“Hi, Nance.” Nancy feels Dad’s arms wrap around her, hugging her into his shirt. She expects him to let go after a moment, but he keeps hold of her, his hand resting on her cheek. She tries to tilt her head to see his face but his nose is buried in her hair. His thumb brushes under her eye, as though searching for tears.

Nancy frowns but when he lets go of her to bounce Florence into his arms, letting her take her seat again at the table, Dad’s face is clear, even if his jaw is tense. Nancy watches him, frowning, for a second, but goes back to her pancakes.

“Got your football kit on, El?” Dad asks, as Nancy kicks her brother under the table.

“Ow, she _kicked_ me-“

Nancy looks at her father with innocent eyes. “My foot slipped.”

Dad eyeballs her, but Mum taps Elwen’s shoulder. “Yeah, your football kit’s on your bed, remember-“

“You’re just jealous because they asked to film me and not you.” Elwen sticks his tongue out at her, a sight not made any more palatable by the forkful of pancakes he’s just shovelled into it.

“Close your mouth, you can’t even _chew-“_

“Anyway-“ Mum’s hand tightens on Elwen’s shoulder for a moment. “They’re not filming any of you. Only the backs of your heads.”

Filming for the first time had had a faint air of novelty about it, especially for Florence, who’s always happy to take in anyone new who might prove a willing audience for renditions of _Frozen_ songs and stories about bunnies. This time, it’s not as much of an excitement but more of a faint interest, especially as Mum and Dad asked them (again) if they were all right with it several times and told them (again) that their faces wouldn’t be shown. This time, Nancy hadn’t really had to think about it. If her eating her whole breakfast is already going to be shown on TV, one shot of the back of her head can’t do any damage. It’s Elwen who’s got to play football for them.

“What happened to your hunger strike?” Dad asks, sitting down next to her-Mum’s lowering Florence into her chair, Florence’s chubby hands still grasping hers’.

“I’m on it” Nancy says, blithely allowing the forkfuls of pancake transferring themselves from plate to mouth to speak for themselves.

“Between meals” Mum says over Florence’s head.

“Gandhi would be delighted.”

“Gandhi was ancient, he could go without food” Nancy informs him, unruffled, before sticking her fork back into the pancake. “Plus he did creepy stuff to girls.” What this is, Nancy isn’t entirely sure, but Bea seemed fairly certain of it.

Dad raises an eyebrow.

“It didn’t stop you having dessert last night” Mum says, still combing Florence’s hair back out of her face.

“That was different” Nancy tells her. “I was preparing for tomorrow, I told you when you came in. Like when squirrels hibernate.”

“You can see it in your face.” Elwen puffs his cheeks out at her.

As Nancy kicks him again, she doesn’t neglect to notice, even as the two descend into a furious argument, that Mum’s eyes met Dad’s across the table for a moment when Nancy mentioned her arrival during dessert, an unspoken frisson of understanding passing between them.

* * *

_“There’s no one else here” David says, trying not to sound nervous, because there’s no bloody reason to sound nervous. His hands flex awkwardly at his sides, wanting to reach out and take Ed’s coat, but thinking better of it at the last second. “There’s-er-the staff are-I-er-I thought it would be better if we were-“_

_Ed’s looking at him, too close, and yet suddenly, urgently, not close enough. His eyes are so dark, David notices in the lamplight yellowed by the panelled walls of the hallway. His eyes trace the faint shadows under Ed’s eyes, and he folds his fingers into his palm, suddenly nervous of what they might do._

_“Would you like to-“ he’s starting to say, about to gesture over his shoulder to one of the armchairs in the Great Hall so they can have the conversation, get it over with, done, go home, and then he turns round and Ed’s mouth is half-pushing itself into his, stealing David’s breath, his eyes opening wide in shock, before Ed’s hand curls, clumsily but determined, into the hair at the back of his head and holds him there, his other hand cupping David’s cheek, fingers pressing too hard, almost digging into the skin, as though trying to brand them together._

* * *

“Dad-“ Harry grins at him over his glasses. “Dad, do the voice.”

Nick draws his hand slowly across his throat.

“Dad, please. Please do the voice.” Harry points to the whiteboarded sign reading _Dumb Obedience._ “See, I’ll even do _that_ if you do it in the voice.”

Nick raises an eyebrow.

“Please.”

Nick sighs, and types the two words into the machine. There’s a moment of silence before both of them duck as the words “DUMB OBEDIENCE” are blurted across the room in the voice of an angry Stephen Hawking.

“Jesus, Dad!”

Nick points to his throat, then scribbles a response on a board, which he turns round for Harry to read.

 _“Volume loud.”_ Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it didn’t have to take my ear off-“ He brightens. “Can you do it again, only quieter?”

Nick rolls his eyes and holds up another sign, this one reading _Make Me A Cup Of Tea._

 _“Please_ say it in the voice.”

Nick’s debating whether to throw the sign at him when his phone buzzes, and he nearly makes an attempt at throwing his voice when he reads the notification.

“Wow.” Harry raises his eyebrow as Nick types something unprintable into the voice machine. “If you say _that_ in the voice, can I film it?”

* * *

Craig snorts as his mobile vibrates. “Want to know what Robinson says?” he asks Lynton, whose celebrations on the other end of the phone are finally, after several minutes, dying down.

“Delight me.” Lynton barks out the words, which for Lynton is an unusually happy tone.

“OK, he says-“ Craig scrolls through the sea of notifications, leaning back in his chair. _“Congratulations on the victory for democracy. Tell the PM that a peerage should be in the offing. At least a pay rise.”_

Lynton snorts. “Tell him he could start by getting you there for every other interview. I can’t believe you’re missing this one.”

“Well, this is the last time they’re being filmed” Craig says, glancing over at the oven, where the girls’ fish fingers are cooking. “Apart from the Geordie interview with Sam on Tuesday, and that’s just photographs.”

“Have you let him know?”

“Know what?”

“Only one debate. Not going up against Miliband. Seven-way debate for halfway through.”

“Had a phone call with Sam this morning. She told him.”

“Where was he?”

Craig hesitates. “I think” he says, and he’s hoping that he’s right even as he’s thinking of something to say, “he was getting the kids breakfast.”

Lynton waits a second too long before answering. “I imagine” he says, “Thea told George.”

Craig taps his fingers slowly, something wry that's almost a grin twisting his mouth. “Well” he says. “Thea.”

* * *

“Yeah” Gabby says, scrutinising Sam’s blouse one more time. “I don’t think you’ll need to borrow Kate’s top again.”

Kate glances at her cardigan, rather defensively, as Sam tugs her hair out of the collar of the pink and turquoise patterned plaid blouse she’d found in H&M a couple of months back. It had been ideal for wearing around the house then, on days when she doesn’t have to go back into the office. Now, it’s become the uniform for David Cameron’s wife to wear in the kitchen while feeding the kids their lunch.

“Do you think I should put my hair up or down?”

“Down-“ Gabby tucks Sam’s hair behind her ears with the practiced air of someone who’s taken on the role of hairdresser many times before. “It looks more casual. It’ll look like you’re at work if you’ve got it in a bun or something.

There’s a knock at the door and Sam turns to see Dave, tugging at the bottom of his polo shirt with a puzzled look on his face. “Out or in?”

“Out, for God’s sake.” Gabby tugs him by the wrist towards the door. “Out, _out-_ you’re not meant to be _wearing_ it yet, you’re only going to be wearing the jumper while they film you with Elwen at the football-“

“So I’m meant to come home and change-“

“Yeah, exactly-“

David’s eyes meet Sam’s past Gabby and Kate’s heads, a resigned look of amusement glinting in his eyes. Sam smiles back and for a moment, it could be five years ago, when the requirements of a video shoot were something to be laughed at, and there was nothing more knotted to share glances over.

Then Dave disappears out the door, and for a moment, she’s alone.

* * *

_“Ed-“_

_David reflects, dimly, that this isn’t how he intended the conversation to go. But then, he can hardly talk._

_Literally, as it happens, as, despite his best intentions, he’s still kissing Ed Miliband._

_“Mmm-Miliband-“_

_They’ve managed to make it to one of the sofas in the Great Hall. David reflects dazedly that there’s something almost decadently reckless about them sitting here, the arch of the ceiling over their heads, the sofas in the middle of the sheer openness of the space, his hands in Miliband’s hair._

_“Mmmph-Miliband-“_

_Miliband finally pulls back from him, so sharply that David almost loses his balance and slides off the sofa altogether._

_“What?” David’s thankful for the moment of having to right himself-it gives him time to conceal the decidedly close to soft smile that’s fighting to appear at his mouth at the sight of Miliband scowling at him, cheeks flushed, lips pouting and still a little kiss-swollen, hair a mess, looking for all the world like a sulky schoolboy._

_The sight makes it quite difficult to remember exactly what he stopped kissing Miliband for, really._

_“We need to-“ He takes a deep breath, then another. “We’re supposed to be discussing this.”_

_Closing his eyes actually helps matters, slightly._

_“I don’t thee what there ith to dithcuthh.”_

_Closing his eyes may have helped when it comes to avoiding Miliband’s dark gaze, but it does nothing when it comes to avoiding the sound of that bloody lisp._

_“We th-said thith is the lath-st time” Miliband says, and David can tell just from his voice he’s struggling to sound convincingly unaffected. “So it’s the last time.”_

_David manages a laugh, even looking away from him. “We say that a lot.”_

_“Th-so?” Miliband’s words might be more believable if it weren’t for the fact David can feel him, his hand against the tip of David’s finger, which is stroking the skin back and forth, over and over. “Thith time, we-“_

_He knows, even with his eyes determinedly closed, that Miliband has looked away, jaw clenching slightly._

_“We won’t th-see each other after this anyway” Miliband says suddenly, as though this is something he’s just decided himself. “Th-so it will be the last time.”_

_Something about the words hardens in David’s chest. He knows they won’t see each other much, after this week, of course. Only in TV debates and the couple of official ceremonies necessary._

_“This is the last time” he says aloud, half to himself, the words still hovering just out of reach, though maybe he’s just trying not to grasp them._

_For a moment, he thinks Miliband’s going to reply but he doesn’t say anything._

_“The last time” David says again, a little more slowly and then he turns to Miliband and opens his eyes._

_Miliband’s gaze is roaming to his mouth and back, the corner of his lip caught between his teeth. The sight, stupidly, makes something ache in David’s chest, and he has to look away for a moment._

_“All right” he says, then again, “All right.”_

_He wriggles an inch closer to Miliband, conscious that for two men in their forties, they’re sitting on this sofa together like a pair of teenagers. But then, they won’t be doing it again._

_“If that’s-“ he starts, then with a tiny shake of the head-“-then-“_

_Miliband’s eyes move to his mouth again._

_David takes his face between his hands, Miliband’s cheeks pressing into his palms, and tilts their mouths together, almost unbearably slowly, savouring in a horrible kind of way the moment their lips finally press into each other, soft and warm. If it’s the last time he’ll kiss Miliband like this, the last time his mouth will ever be on Miliband’s, he wants to hold onto it._

* * *

“Peter, you’re not going to change the fucking time-zone designation by checking the time three times.”

Even on the phone screen, Alastair can make out Peter’s injured look. “What would you suggest?”

“Turning the iPad off and shoving it back on when it’s time to talk to him. It’s a bloody Skype call, not a royal fucking summons.”

Peter tuts. “I’d almost think you were losing your touch, Ali.”

Alastair raises a finger warningly. “Don’t even fucking go there.”

“I’m sure Tony would never have started that nickname if he’d known you’d take so unkindly to it” Peter sighs.

“Damn right he fucking would, that’s the whole bloody attraction of it.” Alastair folds his arms, yanking one earphone out as he heads round the corner. “And this whole stupid call was your idea.”

“If I recall correctly, it was _your_ idea.”

“It was my idea to tell him to get his arse back over here and throw himself into the campaign, not to play bloody pass the camera.”

“And fortunately-“ Peter examines his nails. “I was here to tell you it deserved a little more of a delicate touch.”

“This is fucking delicate?” Alastair gestures to himself. “I’m in my running gear, for God’s sake.”

“I can’t account for your sartorial choices.”

* * *

“So we’re obviously not going to have any shots of the kids’ faces-“ James says, gesturing with a wide sweep of his arm towards the football field, the gaggle of small boys in white football shirts glancing over at the cameras with some interest. “So we’re just-going to try and get one shot of the back of Elwen’s head while he’s playing-and then we’ll do the interview off in the field once Sam picks him up-“

David’s known James for years, in the same way he knows everyone who went to Eton. But James was four years behind him, and so while he’d known James’ face at school, vaguely, he hadn’t really got to know him until years after school and university, bumping into each other in various circles, their shared school background easing the conversation between them.

Elwen glances over at them, head cocked to the side. David nearly raises a hand to wave to him, then hesitates. The other boys’ parents all had to be told about the filming in advance but whether they’ll have explained it to their sons, he doesn’t know, and so it occurs to him that any acknowledgement may not be welcome to Elwen. It’s one of the first times he’s had to think that here, in Oxfordshire, near the place they brought Elwen a few days after leaving the hospital, away from the cameras to his new home.

* * *

“Is that your dad over there?” Ross nudges Elwen in the chest, his blond, shoulder-length curls bouncing on his shoulders.

Elwen glances over at Dad, then quickly looks away.

“Yeah” he says, as they head out to the corners of the field, ready for the ball to be kicked into the middle. Ross already knows it’s his dad, anyway.

Ross glances over at the cameras, huddled on the sidelines like another couple of people in amongst the other boys’ parents. “Are they filming us?”

Elwen fixes his eyes on the ball. “Don’t know.” This isn’t entirely untrue-he doesn’t know if they’re filming yet, though he knows that they’ll be filming some of him playing. It didn’t seem to matter much when Dad was telling them about it the other night-he’d said that the other kids would just be told it was for the local school sports or something. Most of them live in the village, anyway, and go to school here, not in London, like Elwen.

The referee blows his whistle, and the boys move back, some of them still giggling and pushing each other, into their various positions. Elwen fixes his eyes on the ball, ready to dart towards it. “Three-two-“

“Are they filming because of you?” Ross asks, in the split second before the whistle blows, and Elwen has less than that to decide how to answer.

The whistle shrieks through the air and the boys burst into an explosion of movement towards the ball.

“No” says Elwen, deciding on the spur of the moment, and then he sets off towards the ball, after the others, but quickly making up for lost time.

* * *

“Nancy, I’m not calling Uncle Craig to tell him about your hunger strike.” Mum tugs Flo’s seatbelt over her, pulling her ponytail loose from her pink puffa jacket. “Aside from the fact it’s not a hunger strike, I’ve got enough to sort out when we get Elwen back, we’ve still got to check those outfits with Kate and Gabby-“

Nancy turns round in the front passenger seat to glare into the back at her mother. “Gandhi’s hunger strikes only worked because he had supporters.” She bites into her Hobnob to illustrate the point-elevenses, Nancy has decided, don't count as snacks.

Her mother closes the car door in answer, walking round the front to climb into the driver’s seat. Nancy wriggles, tugging her ponytail out of the top of her hoodie. It’s still cold and overcast, with a grey tinge to the sky, but the cold bite of winter in the air has gone. “How long’s Dad going to be after we get Elwen?”

“I think James just wants to film Dad going round the shops-and then they’re going to come back to the house for lunch-“

This in itself isn’t unusual for people who come to interview Dad. People come every three or four visits or so to Chequers for lunch, when they’re there, a parade of faces, some that become familiar, some that don’t. But Bea and Liberty are little constants in Nancy’s life, even if she isn’t really aware of what that means yet. She has vague memories of them at six and seven and eight and nine, ages that will one day all blur into one in some ways, practicing dance routines on the sweeping lawns, either side of the driveway, at the top of the grand staircase, mouthing along to lyrics they don’t have to think to remember: _I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now._

“But-“ Nancy twists round to look at her mother. “They’re just-there’s just someone in the corner with a camera, right?”

“Yeah.” Mum glances at her. “You’re not going to have to have your faces on camera.”

Nancy glances at her. “What about you, on Tuesday?”

Mum’s jaw tightens slightly but she pats Nancy’s hand. “That’s just a newspaper interview.” She gives her a quick smile, ruffles her hair. “It’s not the same thing.”

* * *

_“I remember when they first made me do newspaper interviews” Cherie tells her, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. “I was rubbish at it, I never knew what to say.”_

_Sam laughs. If Cherie likes you, it’s easy to laugh with her around. There’s a fire in her, that could almost be scary, but it isn’t. To Sam, it isn’t._

_“Plus Alastair always used to choose the editors and the reporters” Cherie tells her, taking a sip from the mug. “I never had a say in that.”_

_It would be hard for anyone else to picture Cherie not having a say. It would take someone being here, really, to understand._

_“If you do an interview” Sam says, feeling her way through the words. “They’re looking at you. And not anyone else, not the kids. But in a way, they’re still getting to look at them. Just through a different lens.”_

_Her eyes almost but don’t quite move behind them to the photo of Ivan, always on the wall._

_Cherie watches her. Her eyes too move around the flat, the kitchen, lingering for only a moment on the marble counters, before she leans forward, her hand covering Sam’s, almost like a mother’s. For a moment, they’re both quiet, their eyes taking in the ghosts of children running through the rooms._

* * *

“Come on, Elwen, get in the middle-“

Elwen’s several feet away, in the middle of the football pitch, a darting figure in a white football shirt, a blue number 10 emblazoned on the back.

Amazingly, this hadn’t been a deliberate move-or at least, not one designed for the cameras. It had been last year that Elwen had been given the football shirt, with his coach’s grin at David implying the presence of an in-joke. Elwen had been young enough to miss it, and a part of David wonders if he still would now.

But the cameramen had been pleased with it. “He’s the one with the 10 on his back” Michael had joked, pointing him out to them, and even though it’s only his back that can be filmed, there had still been something like a wrench in David’s chest as he took in the size of his small son, dwarfed in comparison to the tall black tripods and long lenses.

James, standing next to him, nudges his elbow. “Remember, we’re not going to be doing any of the interview now, we’ll save that until after the kids have been picked up-“

David doesn’t have to ask why-the wholesomeness of the scene-ruddy-cheeked children running around a football field in the countryside, even in the midst of an overcast March morning, will have been a goldmine when it was painted for Craig.

The word _wholesome_ sticks in his throat like a stone, and he claps harder, slapping away the image that rears up to the forefront of his mind.

* * *

_The arm of the couch is jammed under both his and Miliband’s heads. Lying down, David thinks vaguely, seemed a good idea some time ago, but he can’t entirely remember when. Miliband’s suit came off a while ago too-it’s over the back of the couch, David thinks. Or the floor. He’s not sure, and when he tries to remember, his hand moves up half-under Miliband’s shirt, fingers curling half into the material, one almost tentatively stroking the bare skin of his back._

_Miliband’s mouth opens in a gasp, their noses half-pressing into each other, David’s leg lying over his, pressing back and forth between Miliband’s calves. David thinks, in a hot flash of fear, that Miliband’s going to pull away, and his grip tightens without him noticing, but Miliband’s mouth opens against his own, his lips fumbling their way between David’s in a hotter, open-mouthed kiss, with a little moaning sound at the back of his throat. David’s fingers thread through his hair, exploring, trying desperately not to rush, sure with each needing, pressing little kiss that it will be the last, and each time, giddily, greedily stunned that he’s somehow found another reprieve._

* * *

“So you can confirm that you’re not going to win an election and then-well, you know-“ James laughs slightly, almost disbelievingly, a trick David knows all too well. “Leave your party in the lurch two years in?”

They’re standing at the side of the pitch, which the cameras are now carefully facing away from, conveniently disguising the fact that it’s empty. Elwen’s already been picked up by Sam and the others, and the other parents, apart from the few for whom the sight of a camera is still enough of a novelty to prompt some lingering, have mostly left with their own children, with waves of goodbye until the next week, when they can pretend he’s a normal parent again.

“Absolutely-“ David’s used enough to this by now to almost be able to ignore the camera standing almost close enough to touch to his left. “If we win, voters can feel-you know, they’ll have a guarantee there’ll be a full second term.”

“So they’re not going to have a backseat Prime Minister who’s actually going to be fine if he doesn’t win and the other guy does?”

David doesn’t quite freeze, but he lets himself still for a second, lets himself study James’ face carefully under the guise of tilting his head back. James’ eyes are calm, his face carefully interested, his expression suggesting this is nothing but any normal question.

_“Miliband-“ He’d almost said “Ed”, but he’d caught himself at the last moment, fingers braiding themselves restlessly in Miliband’s hair. “Miliband-“_

_Ed’s mouthing somewhere at the base of David’s neck, which is part of the reason David hadn’t wanted to say his name, hadn’t wanted him to decide this is too much, to stop, is already getting ready to be pushed away-_

_“Miliband-“ He’s at just the right place to push his mouth against Miliband’s ear, is rewarded with a shudder he wants to feel again and again, as his tongue traces behind the shell, tickles the lobe. “Miliband-can I-“_

_Miliband doesn’t still, but he clutches a little tighter, and David can feel him watching, waiting, even as their hands move restlessly over one another. He brings his own leg up slowly, carefully, their hips moving more and more gradually against each other in slow circles, so that Miliband’s fingers clench slowly in his shirt. His head tips back in a groan and David just wants to play that groan over and over again, along with the pale hollow of Miliband’s throat._

“I’m putting myself forward for the full five years-“ He speaks a little too quickly, sees James draw in his breath-any journalist learns in the first year that someone speaking too quickly is someone who’s got something they don’t want to say.

“I feel fit and healthy enough to do the job-“ He’s learnt a few tricks himself. “I’ve got a real passion for it, I’m really keen to win-and-if I fall short-“

_Miliband wriggles beneath him, and God-David’s losing his breath, their foreheads pressing together._

_“David.” Miliband murmurs his name and David’s eyes open and for a moment, they stare at each other, dark eyes staring up into blue staring back, wide eyed and needing and a little frightened, each of them seeing the same expressions on the other’s face._

“I will be very disappointed” he says, and James glances at the cameraman. “Is that-does that seem-“

David takes the second to look away, squeeze his eyes shut for the slightest moment to hold the memory tight, and then squash it down, beneath the rest of his thoughts, to look at later.

_“David.” Miliband’s voice is a harsh whisper and then his hand’s bracing him on David’s back and he’s lifting his hips up ever so slightly and oh, then he **writhes.**_

* * *

“How come we have to get changed when he’s sitting in that?” Nancy shoves her brother in the shoulder, leaning in from the back seat.

“Because-“ Mum smacks her hand gently, so that Nancy falls into the backseat with an indignant “Ow!” “Gabby and Kate have already picked your outfits out, and they thought it looked better if Elwen was still in his football kit.”

“So we’re pretending he’s only just got in” Nancy says, bluntly, leaning back into the seat, and gently pushing away Flo’s rabbit, which is being pushed into her face. “How long’s the filming going to take, anyway?”

“Like I said, you’re not being filmed.” Mum’s allowed to drive, even if Dad isn’t-though usually they end up using the police drivers anyway, so that everyone can travel round together. Nancy wonders if Mum’s driving them today so none of the cameras around Elwen’s football pitch will be tempted to try to get another shot of them. “Or only while you’re eating your lunch. And that’s from behind. You don’t need to say anything.”

"Is she even going to need lunch?" Elwen twists round in his seat. "I thought you weren't having snacks when you were on hunger strike?"

 _"These"_ Nancy says with the air of superiority being two years older brings, holding her Hobnob aloft. "Are _elevenses._ They don't count."

Elwen squints at her disbelievingly, but being handed his own from his mother at that moment may make him reluctant to argue the point.

“Why do we need the clothes, if we're only being filmed from behind?”

“Oh, blame Mr Crosby. He insisted on Kate sending him a picture of my blouse.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, kicking back in her seat. “If someone’s not going to vote for Dad anyway, then why would they be more likely to vote for him because of your shirt?”

“Don’t ask me, Nance.”

“Well, who else is there?”

“Mr Crosby. Ask him.”

Flo hits Nancy’s shoulder with her koala this time. “Mr Crosby gave me _Lynton”_ she announces, holding it up, as though this information is brand new to everyone in the car.

“Mr Crosby _is_ Lynton” Nancy reminds her, pushing the koala away again. “And Dad only called him that because Mr Crosby gave him to you.”

_“I remember the morning after Tony won” Cherie tells her, both of them sitting at either end of the yellow sofa, each of them cupping a glass of wine. “The press at the doorstep, my hair all over the place.”_

_Sam nearly laughs, but waits until she’s sure Cherie is, too. She knows how it feels-the press swarming back and forth like a black wave of ants, only receding when you walk out with the kids’ hands in yours, the uncomfortable thought nagging at each heartbeat that your small children have become shields._

_“I’d thought we might be able to stay in Richmond Crescent until then” Cherie says, and there’s a ghost of sadness even now in the words. “That was when I knew we couldn’t.”_

_She doesn’t need to say any more for Sam to understand. You tell yourself you know, of course, but you don’t truly know until they’re on the doorstep, in the street, almost in your home. Then, you understand, and then, of course, it’s too late._

* * *

“Not losing your touch, are you, Peter?” Alastair doesn’t lower his gaze, watching as Peter’s eyebrow arches very slightly.

“Alastair, I would almost swear there was a touch of longing in your voice.” Peter’s gaze holds his own, finger moving inch by inch, without looking away from Alastair once.

The game shrieks into life beneath them.

“Oh, fuck it.” Peter throws the metal tweezers down. “I knew I should have told you not to bring it.”

“Given Grace could manage the fucking thing when she was six, I’d think you’d be able to fucking manage to lift a bloody spanner out, Mandelson.”

“I never claimed to be a doctor.” Peter pushes the game aside, giving it an injured look.

“I never claimed to want to bring you a game of bloody Operation.”

“Perhaps if you’d managed to give the greater Miliband an earlier time-“

“Sorry, do you actually think I control fucking space and time?”

“Temper, temper.” Peter leans back on the sofa. “We might as well do something to pass the time.”

“And I thought Osborne did that for you.”

Peter sucks his teeth. “Oh, quite the contrary, on occasion.”

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, not to say Georgie can’t be a rather lovely distraction-”

“Jesus Christ, Peter, I’m already close to throwing up all over your fucking sofa.”

“But I think he’s sometimes the one who longs to be distracted.”

Alastair snorts, then stills, glancing up at him. “What?”

Peter, clearly delighted with the impression he’s created, stretches his legs over the arm of the couch, folds his hands on his chest, until a sudden wavering of balance forces him to throw his arms out in a rather less dignified manner. The look he gives Alastair is clearly designed to quell any mention of this, which would probably only make Alastair more keen to do so if it wasn’t for the fact Peter then says, “I merely imagine that our Georgie sometimes feels a little restless-“

“Your Georgie. Not my fucking Georgie.”

“Don’t hurt his feelings, I’m sure he remembers advising you on your masculinity backstage as much as you do.”

 _“That-“_ Alastair flattens his finger in the air like a gun, pointing straight at Peter, who looks remarkably unconcerned. “Is a moment we do not fucking discuss.”

Peter’s eyebrows travel higher. “I would almost think this was a sensitive subject for you.”

“Stop fucking dodging the subject, Peter. Do you have something on Osborne?”

“Nothing that it would behoove us to prove.”

Alastair flops back on the sofa. “Then what was the fucking point of saying it?”

“Merely musing. I’d have thought you’d hate to be out of the loop.”

“Osborne liking blokes isn’t something you need to be in the fucking loop to know, Peter. You only need to fucking look at him.”

“That’s rather homophobic, don’t you think?”

Alastair grunts, then glances at him. “Sorry.”

Peter shrugs, then lets a smile play across his lips. Alastair throws a cushion at him. “Fuck off.”

“I thought that you’d given up on being PC years ago.”

“Fuck off. What else is there about Osborne?”

“I do believe we may be detecting a softer side to you.”

“Fuck off, I’m warning you.”

“Like I said, nothing that could be proven.” Peter unfolds his fingers, steepling them carefully. “Merely lots of gossip.”

“Yeah, and what’s it saying?”

“I never thought I’d see the day when you were begging for the latest tidbits-“

“Fuck off, Mandelson.”

“Merely that Georgie has a lot of overnight trips.”

“That it?”

Peter takes care with his next words. “Do you remember that pretty young Miss Rogers?”

Alastair snorts. “Who?”

“Worked with Tony a couple of times back in 2005. Round about election time, I believe. Ended up working for Nick Robinson before she got recommended for someone?”

Alastair stills again. Then sits up. “Thea Rogers?”

“I believe so.”

“And Osborne?”

“The very same.”

Alastair stares at him, then snorts, before he flops down again. “How the fuck’s he managed to keep that quiet?”

“Rather easy to do when something isn’t serious. For him, at least. But she’s never going to be the one who puts it out there.”

“Sure we can’t?”

Peter waits a second too long, before Alastair’s head jerks up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He punches the cushion. “You wouldn’t even have fucking told me if you thought we could prove it.”

Peter raises an eyebrow noncommittally. Alastair punches the sofa. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Libel suit wouldn’t be the most helpful going into an election, Alastair.”

“There are others, aren’t there?”

Peter raises the eyebrow again.

“And we can’t prove them, either.” Alastair throws himself back on the sofa, then turns to stare at Peter.

“I’m sure there’s plenty they know about our side that can’t be proven.”

“As if that ever stopped you before.” Alastair raises an eyebrow. “Getting soft, Mandelson?”

“I’m getting no such thing.”

Alastair snorts. “Hmm. OK, soft for _someone.”_

He waits, feels Peter eyeing him.

“Certainly not” Peter says, after a moment.

Alastair snorts, and leans back.

“Of course” Peter says, after several seconds have passed in silence. “Without proof, there’d be no point in repeating any of this.”

“Oh, don’t fucking worry.” Alastair kicks his feet over the arm of the sofa. “I’m not getting us thrown into a fucking libel suit just to screw over your favourite little Tory.”

* * *

“So we’re just going to be-“ James points behind them, as they walk into the village, the other camera moving unobtrusively backwards a few feet in front of them. “We’re just going to be talking as normal, see you do the family shop-then we’ll do the rest back at the house, we just want to get an idea of your family situation, everyday stuff-so we’re just going to be talking, with the camera rolling-“

_His head is buried in Miliband’s neck, Miliband’s leg pressing into his back. They’re rocking against each other, slow aching pleasure rolling in a wave through them both, and David wants to bite down on his lip, on Miliband’s shirt, on his neck, anything, before the moan slowly crawls out of his throat, undulating through them both, because it feels so fucking good-_

_“David-“ Miliband whispers it. “David, don’t.”_

“So you grew up somewhere near here, I think?”

“Yes, we-I grew up in a little village called Peasemore, which isn’t-it isn’t too far away, it’s in Berkshire-“

“So this would-Chadlington would actually have been pretty similar, really, to the village that you grew up in?”

_David freezes, his hand still knotted in the shirt at Miliband’s back. Miliband’s still against him, both of them aching and needing and God, he was almost there-_

_“Ed” he whispers, the name caught between them, and Ed almost shivers. David presses his forehead into his neck, his nose digging into Ed’s skin, breathing him in._

_“Jutht-“ Ed’s voice shakes._

“Pretty-I think Peasemore was probably slightly smaller, more-church-oriented-“

“But you’ve been here for-I think since you became an MP-“

“Yes-“

“So, what, thirteen, fourteen years?”

“Well, so I’m a sort of country boy at heart-erm-“ They’re walking down a country lane, David’s hands shoved in his pockets, partly for warmth. Partly to hide the fact his fingers are clenching and unclenching, annoyingly, rather like Miliband’s.

“We usually come down here with the kids on a Friday and then we’re here for the weekend, and go back Sunday night-“

_He’s still, waiting, his hands clenched in Ed’s shirt, his entire body tensed with **please, please, please-**_

_“Don’t look at me” Ed whispers, and something twists in David’s chest._

_“Ed-“_

_“Cameron.” Ed’s voice shakes again, and nearly cracks and David has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop himself from rearing upright, grabbing Miliband, pulling him closer-“Don’t look at me.”_

“So they’re here most weekends?” James looks perfectly at ease, trudging next to him-but then, for James, it’s probably not a million miles away from his own background.

“They’re here-I would say probably three out of four weekends, they’re here-Elwen plays for the local team, so we’re often here when there’s practices, so they’re-they’re here a good portion of their time-“

“So-I’m always interested to know, with living in Downing Street-“ James turns to him as they walk. “Do you think-do you think they feel that’s their home, or their old house in London-or do they feel it’s here, because-you know, for young kids, which place _is_ their home?”

“It’s just-I really hope this place they feel-“ His and James’ voices clash into each other, James nodding at him, encouraging.

“Because-you know, London _was_ their home-“

“Mmm-mm-“

“And they’re at school in London-“ They have to turn sideways very slightly to angle past an errantly-parked van. “But because we live in Number 10, which-er-one of my children calls the pretend home-“

James laughs, though David’s pretty sure he’s told him before-back when Florence first started at nursery, probably, and Nancy, perhaps foreseeing trouble, had started reiterating it into every conversation.

“Ermmm-it’s very important that they feel very rooted and grounded-“

“Yeah-“

“-here-“

“Yeah-“

“And I think that’s worked pretty well for them, on the whole, they seem to cope with it-Nancy and Elwen are now old enough to understand what being Prime Minister’s about a little bit more-Florence, of course, is still-she doesn’t really-she gets confused sometimes, with all the cars and the police and the security-“

“Yeah, I can imagine-“

“But because she’s-she’s only four, and so she-I think coming here is more helpful for them to have a solid base that they can-still depend on, whatever may or may not happen in-you know, eight weeks’ time.”

The sudden nearness of it rises up in his throat again and he fixes his eyes on one of the familiar stone walls, that the children have grown up running their hands along. It’s not a matter of spin, to say that something about the solidness of Chadlington reassures him-reassures all of them, to varying extents. The fact they have a house here that they’ll keep long beyond when he is or isn’t Prime Minister is something that can’t really be appreciated until you’ve lived somewhere that isn’t really yours’ for five years, even if it feels like home.

And of course, Ivan’s nearby. They couldn’t leave him.

_“Cameron-“ Ed breathes into his neck, fingers curling._

_David barely breathes, pressed hard against him, every inch of him waiting, willing, hoping-“Yeah?”_

_Ed’s voice cracks, an almost pained whisper. “Don’t stop.”_

* * *

“It’s ringing-“

Alastair almost dives for the iPad, nearly knocking Peter to the floor. Peter lets out a sound far too close to a squawk, sounding most un-Peterish.

“It’s ringing, hand me the iPad, hand me the _fucking_ iPad-“

“It’s _my_ iPad-“

 _“I’m_ the one who fucking set it up-just hand me the bloody-“ Alastair scrambles for it, seizes it in a moment of triumph.

“Gentlemen-“ Reinaldo’s voice drifts down over the balcony from above. “I’m trying to make coffee. This is very unbecoming-“

“A- _ha!”_ Alastair bounces upright with a snarl of triumph, iPad clutched between his fingers. “There, I’ve got the fuck-did you just fucking _bite me?”_

Peter makes no answer as Alastair nearly drops the iPad, instead seizing his shirt from behind as they both fall onto the couch. Alastair kicks, using all his upper body strength, but Peter’s like an eel.

“Get off, you fucking-deranged-“ With an effort, Alastair manages to hit the green phone button on the screen. “There-don’t _bite_ me, I’m not Osborne, you _princess-“_

“What?” The new voice from the screen makes both of them look up, startled, having forgotten the purpose of the call, but not before Peter’s blurted out-“I didn’t even get _started_ on those rumours-“

“What, there’s fucking _more?”_ Alastair’s head bounces up in shock, nearly hitting Peter in the nose _. “Ow-“_

“More what?” David Miliband’s voice isn’t quite as nasal as his brother’s, but it’s as aggrieved as he usually sounds. “What’s Osborne done?”

Peter, rubbing his nose with no small amount of drama, glares at Alastair with indignant hurt. “Oh, well done.”

Alastair glares at him. “You’re the one who can’t shut up about him.”

* * *

“George, stop grinning.”

George doesn’t stop grinning, glancing over Robinson’s text message again, forwarded by Craig. Frances sighs, then physically tugs the phone from his grasp.

“Your face is going to get stuck like that.”

“Let it.” George sprawls backwards in his chair, feeling cocky and arrogant and wanting his hair ruffled.

Frances’ gaze rests on him, cool and detached. George gives her a plaintive look.

“Did you tell Thea?” The name falls between them like a stone.

George’s fingers open and close reflexively, as though the phone might still be between them.

“No” he says, though he struggles to keep the plaintive look in his eyes. “I’m sure Craig did.”

Frances watches him for a long moment. George stares back, but Frances is one of the few people who can beat him at this game. And the kids are here.

He sighs. “I don’t love her, Frances.”

It’s true, actually-that’s one thing that is true. He doesn’t love Thea-will never love Thea, at least not be in love with her-and he’s known that from the start. Whether Thea has is another matter, but that’s Thea. George doesn’t concern himself with that.

Frances looks back at him, and then laughs, suddenly. “I know you don’t” she says, then, with a puzzled tilt of the head. “It would probably be better if you did.”

George squints at her. Frances just watches him for a moment, then tosses the phone back into his lap, so George has to jump slightly to catch it. He glances down at the screen, notices Thea’s name on one of his texts. He glances up at Frances, but she just watches him, inscrutable.

George slides his phone back into his pocket. Thea can wait, anyway. She always does.

* * *

_“I think we spent half our marriage talking about Gordon” Cherie says, presciently, curled up next to Sam now on the sofa. “And the other half of it, Tony was thinking about him.”_

_“But when that started-“ Sam feels her way through the words. She might not be obsessed with politics, but everyone knows to feel their way through anything involving Tony and Gordon, and it twists suddenly in her stomach, thinking of Dave in the same category. “When it started, they were friends.”_

_Cherie pats her wrist again, her eyes softer now. “That made it worse.”_

* * *

“Nance-“ Dad tugs at her ponytail, as Nancy turns round from her position on the sofa to glance at him. Elwen, who’s parted with his football boots, but not any other part of his attire, has sprawled across an armchair at the other end of the room, while Florence is scampering in and out of the living room as Mum tries to fix her hair. “This is James-“

Nancy looks up at the tall man with glasses, takes his extended hand. “Hi.” The people who Dad brings back to visit them are all different-his friends, like Uncle George, don’t act as though there’s anything different about them, but sometimes the people who are just coming to interview Dad stare at them like they’re waiting to see what they do, as if they’re some slightly odd creatures they’ve been invited to view, not like normal children at all.

James Landale is one of those people Nancy thinks she’s probably seen a couple of times before at parties, so he doesn’t squint at her like she’s in a zoo. “Hi-“

“Hi-“

“This is Nancy-Elwen-“ Dad nods over at Elwen, sitting in the armchair. “And-Flo’s just-through there with Sam-so they’re staying in here, there’s no-“

“Yeah, they’re-we were thinking if they want to be in the kitchen at any point while we’re just getting basic shots of you-doing the food prep-that’s OK, as long as they’re not on camera-“

“Right, so the only time-“ Dad breaks off, grabbing Flo as she wraps around his legs. “The only time they’ll be on camera-“

“Is with their backs to it, yeah-“

“Their backs to it-“

“It’ll be a prepared shot, so there’s-there’s no chance of us getting them-“ James spreads his hands. “The only time they’ll be filmed, it’ll be set up in advance-“

Nancy lets the rest of this wash over her-they don’t have to talk on camera this time, so at least she doesn’t have to think about the whole school watching Dad talk to her at the breakfast table. She glances down at the plaid shirt she’s wearing that Kate and Gabby had both looked over, before sending her over to Michael in the kitchen for him to give the final seal of approval.

“Looks good” he’d said, after having Nancy turn round for him-in Isabel’s absence, Michael is often the one called upon for clothes advice for their mother, which he’s apparently extending to Nancy. “Except-“ He’d glanced over at Mum, who was having her hair curled at the ends by Gabby-Lino, who usually does Mum’s hair, is back in London. “The plaid shirts might-it might look a bit too matchy-how about if when she’s on camera, Nance just wears a little-a jacket or a cardigan or something-“

Nancy had shrugged, not caring either way particularly, and had headed off to her wardrobe, returning with the short black blazer she’d worn to The Railway Children back in January. Michael had nodded approvingly. “Good. Looks a little like your mum’s blazers, but not like you’re twins or anything.”

Nancy had glanced at Mum questioningly, only to feel Michael tug at her ponytail. “We’ll have to retie it right before lunch, when they’re being filmed, but otherwise-it’s fine-“

Nancy had shaken her head free, a little irked at being tugged back, only to notice Mum’s eyes moving over her face rather than the jacket, with something almost like sadness in them.

“What?” Nancy had asked, confused.

Mum had shaken her head slightly. “You’re getting taller” is all she’d said with a smile, but there’d still been something sad in her smile, and when she’d pulled Nancy in for a hug, for a moment her arms had just squeezed her tight, as though trying to bury her in her shirt.

* * *

“God knows why you had to be talking about Osborne.”

“God knows why you’re not fucking coming _back.”_ Alastair nearly kicks the coffee table, but restrains himself. “You know what it’s fucking doing to us in the polls.”

David looks as though he is restraining himself from rolling his eyes with great difficulty. Peter steeples his fingers under his chin. “Well” he says, with great ceremony. “At least we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way.”

Alastair rolls his eyes. “Oh, like you haven’t fucking said it.”

“I said,” Peter says, with great delicacy, “that it may be helpful if David offered his support. I also said it might put the entire feud back in the limelight if he was seen on the campaign trail.”

“And I agree.” David spreads his hands a little too quickly, as though seizing on a reasonable gesture to deploy. “That’s why I’m staying here.”

Alastair brings his hand down on the glass coffee table. Peter grasps it and moves it away with a disapproving look. “Alastair. I have just had that _cleaned.”_

“It would still bloody help.” Alastair tugs at his belt, wishing he had Grace’s bloody penguin in his hand from years ago. “One of the top bloody impressions of him is that he’s the guy that shafted his fucking brother.”

On screen, David almost flinches.

“Which might not be helped by them being reminded of it” Peter points out delicately, attending to his coffee table with a furrow of the brow.

“David was regarded as fucking competent.”

“Yvette’s regarded as-ah- _fucking_ competent-“ Peter places a delicate stress on the penultimate word. “Her being seen out and about with him doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

“You know damn well that it’s not the same thing.”

“Well, quite. Yvette has much better hair, for one thing.” Peter glances at the screen. “No harm intended, David.”

Alastair snorts. “Yeah, much better hair. Much better Lasagna Plots.”

“That was two years ago.”

Alastair leans forward suddenly, glancing sharply between them. “You know it’s the brother thing.”

“The brother thing is right there.” Peter’s tone is a touch sharper now.

“Not him.” Alastair waves dismissively at the screen. “The whole-issue. It sticks in people’s bloody heads. We need to get past it.”

“I thought him being weak was the biggest issue?”

“Yeah, we wanted to make him look _not weak_ by kicking Cameron’s head in, not by saying “Hello, do you remember when he picked up a knife and plunged it into his brother’s spine-“”

“I am still here, you know.”

“Well, you’re _not,_ that’s the whole bloody point.”

“I agree with Peter.” David’s voice is a little sharper now. “I’d be a distraction.”

“But we fucking _need_ something.” Alastair’s jaw clenches. “We need-something. An interview. An article.”

“How many people read them? If it wasn’t in a tabloid, it’d be worthless.”

Alastair grits his teeth. “It’s better than fucking nothing, David.”

“I can put my support for Labour on record” David says, settling back, and Alastair has the feeling he’s thought this speech through carefully in advance. “I can do that. But me getting involved in the campaign-that can’t happen.”

Alastair stares at him, remembering another night, David sitting across a table, the dining room at Chevening looming around them.

_“Can you really picture it?” He’d leaned across the table, meeting David’s dark gaze, knowing he was echoing Fiona's words but wondering if he'd get a different answer. “When it comes down to it. Can you really picture running against him?”_

“My life’s here” David insists now. “With Louise and the boys. That’s what I want to-“ He shakes his head slightly. “Back there, it’s-it’s a distraction.” He doesn’t say who for.

“Do you want him to win?” Alastair asks it abruptly. Peter’s head twitches very slightly, but his eyebrow arches, with no rebuke. “Your brother. Do you want him to win?”

David stares at him. Alastair waits for the angry retort, the indignant denial.

“I want Labour to win” is what David says slowly, and when Alastair glances at Peter, he realises he expected this response all along.

* * *

_David doesn’t know when he started whispering Miliband’s name, pressing hot, reverent kisses to his neck, relishing the warm, slightly damp skin he finds there, their hips still rolling and rocking together. All he knows is that Miliband’s hands are braced on his back, and one of his hands is in Miliband’s hair and Miliband’s pulling him closer with each thrust, wonderful, frantic little sounds breaking out of his throat, and David’s breathing hard, trying not to groan as loudly as he wants to, feeling everything in his body coil tighter and tighter._

_“Miliband” he whispers, a warning and a plea. “Miliband. I-“_

“Right, so I’m going to-you’re going to have to be very surprised to see me-“ James says, popping his head round the door frame. “When you knock-“

“We don’t even know you’re here-“

“No, I suspect not-“ James glances at the cameraman, questioningly, then at Michael and Gabby. “Is that-all-“

“Yeah, that’s-“ Michael and Gabby exchange a glance, Gabby pressing the red phone button-Graeme’s services had been roped in over the phone when Gabby decided it would be better if they had the input of at least one person from the press side, since Craig’s got the weekend off. “That’s-OK-Sam, are you just gonna be-“

“Watching me mess it up-“ David searches for her eyes at the joke, relief travelling down his spine like warm rain at the sight of her smile. He needs Sam close now, especially since the kids can’t come in for the first bit.

“Right, we all ready?” James gives them a last glance, then pops out through the wooden door into the conservatory, leaving them standing there, gazing rather stupidly at each other.

David spreads his hands. “I’ll just get on with the lunch, shall I?”

“Don’t you dare” Gabby says, already glancing at the cameras anxiously. “You’ll get it on your hands, you’ve got to-shake his, when he comes in-“

“Bloody hell, I’ve just spent the whole bloody morning with him, I’m not shaking his hand after another two seconds-“

“OK, three-two-“

Gabby looks scandalised, glancing at Kate anxiously, who shrugs in response. David rolls his eyes and decides to wait, leaning against the counter. At least he’ll be able to see James heading for the door.

“One-“

There’s a moment of silence and then right on cue, James appears, rapping on the door as though he’s just walked up the drive for lunch.

David leans in, yanks the door open, already determined not to have to repeat the shot. “Hi, James-come in-“

“Hi, hi-thank you very much indeed-“ James ducks through the door, letting the camera get a clear shot over his shoulder of the children’s coats and shoes, hung up in the makeshift cloakroom in the conservatory-David catches a glimpse of Florence’s bright pink puffa jacket, which Michael had made sure was front and centre.

“Right, a shop for a-shopping’s been put away-“

“Right, what have we got here, what have we got here-“

“Well, most of it’s pretty simple, for a-we’ve got some ham and stuff, but then you already know that-“ James follows him over to the back of the kitchen island, where the salad and ham’s already laid out and prepared.

“Right, well, I’ve been meaning to ask, is it true, do you do all the cooking?” James’ eyes are taking in the carefully-arranged counter, cleared of anything that could grab the attention of social media and generate another week’s worth of kitchen headlines, this time ones that don’t send George into raptures before each PMQs rehearsal.

“I don’t do _all_ the cooking, no, me and Samantha will-if I do the cooking, Sam will do the loading the dishwasher, so we try to balance it out, since she’s more of the organizer-“

“Right, so-“ James leans on the counter with a grin. “Shall we-shall we do the lunch first or get the tricky questions out of the way?”

David almost flinches.

_“Miliband-“ he manages to whisper and then Miliband just makes a frantic sound in his throat and his legs wrap around David’s waist, and then he **shouts** , half-into David’s neck, half-into his ear, shuddering, and David’s arms just wrap around him and hold him._

“Get the tricky questions out the way” he says, with a laugh, reaching for the kitchen knife for something to do with his hands. “Before the-because the children will probably want to be piling in soon, and that way-“

“That’s true-“

“Yeah, is that-“ James glances around. “That good with everyone, if we do the questions first, that kind of-“

There’s a general noise of assent. Gabby’s eyes are narrowed, as though she can catch any potential pitfalls in the coming questions spelled out in the island’s woodwork.

“Right, so we’ll just do the-“ James claps his hands. “The how long will you go one-“

“Yes-“

“And then the-whole-childhood, background, Eton-“ James shakes his head. “So they’re only the really-we covered most of the rest of it-“

“Yeah, sure-“

“Right, so-OK, the whole-career future one, we ready?”

David seizes the moment James glances around at the others to glance over his own shoulder. He can feel Sam’s gaze on him, her eyes finding his unerringly. His heart squeezes fondly at the sight of her, and he has the sudden, startling feeling that if James didn’t ask the question now, he might cry.

“So-while right now, obviously you’re just focusing on winning your second term-“ James turns so that they’re standing perpendicular to the island, the cameras carefully positioned at diagonal angles across the room. “But a lot of people wonder, should-should this election have the outcome you, deliver the outcome you want-“

“Yeah-“

“And you stay in Downing Street, and do-would you go for a _third_ term?” James raises an eyebrow very slightly.

David nearly glances back at Sam again, but he doesn’t trust himself entirely.

“No, I-think-erm, you know-“

James nods encouragingly.

“I’m standing for a full second term-“ David chooses his words more carefully now. “I’m not saying-er-all prime ministers _definitely_ go mad-“

James laughs slightly.

“Erm-or even go mad at the same rate, but I think-“ He almost glances at Gabby and Kate, but doesn’t. “You know, I think I’ve got more to bring to this job-“

“Yeah-“

“I think the job is half-done, the economy’s turned round, the deficit’s half-down, I want to finish the job-“

“So just to be clear, you wouldn’t-you know-get voted in and then-“ James’ mouth twitches. “Bugger off a year later?”

“Well, hopefully-“ David laughs, the ease of the interview helping now. “Hopefully not, but you know-when it comes to standing down, it’ll hopefully be-I’ll be there for well into the second term and then give someone else a chance to take over, but I’d want to make sure-you know, the task we were-entrusted with when we took over the country in 2010 was complete, that the economy had improved, the deficit was down-I’d want to be sure that was complete before I-“

“But if you’d been the Prime Minister who oversaw all that-“ James spreads his hands. “ A lot of people would feel-well, why would you walk away?”

David hesitates, holding in his mind the words he just said. The economy. The deficit. James will know full well who else oversaw their recovery. David knows who he’s being invited to name.

“That’s a very good point” he says, carefully. “You know-and of course, I want the work I did to help that recovery to be remembered as mine and I want to be able to do the job for as long as I feel I’m the right person to do it, but you know-there definitely comes a time where fresh-you know-a fresh pair of eyes-“

“Yeah-“

“And fresh leadership would be good-and the Conservative Party-“

David’s also aware of who James is probably wondering if he’ll name at all.

“Has got some great people coming up-the Theresa Mays and the George Osbornes-“ He eyes James’ face as he says George’s name, sees the slight flicker of recognition in his eye.

“And-“ He pauses very slightly. “The Boris Johnsons-“

This time, James’ eyes definitely gleam. “Yeah-“

“So there’s plenty of talent there, I’m surrounded by very, very-“

“So, no, no-“ James puts up a hand. “The full five years but no third term?”

“The-the-“ Their voices crash into each other. “The third term is-er-“

He looks James in the eyes. “Not something I’m contemplating.”

“Mmm.” James nods, not looking away.

David feels his own mouth twitch, knowing James is already mulling over the potential leadership dramas of the years ahead.

“Terms are like Shredded Wheat” he says, more lightly. “Two are wonderful-“

“Yeah-“

“Three-“ He turns back to the chopping board, reaching for the bag of salad for something to do with his hands. “Might just be too many.”

_“Miliband.” David’s voice is a whisper when he finally lifts his head. His heart’s pounding as though he’s just run for miles. A part of him wants to leap up, almost punch the air. Another part of him wants to wrap his arms around Miliband and hold him for hours, so that neither of them have to think about what they just did. Another part wants to think about it._

_He wishes another part was wishing it had never happened, but that’s not true._

_“Miliband.” His voice is a whisper, and Miliband’s very still under him until, suddenly, he’s wriggling away._

* * *

“Now, you know before we get to the food, we’ve got to do the other big question-“ James raises his hands. “I’m not going to ask about the Bullingdon Club, don’t worry, we’re not getting into that-“

Sam snorts. David wonders who Craig had to kill to extract this concession from the BBC.

“But I am going to-I wanted to ask you about the whole-you know, do you ever think that the fact you _are_ from a privileged background-do you ever get people coming up to you, going-you know-“You don’t understand our lives”, you know, “You’ve never-had to deal with the bedroom tax, had to go to a food bank”, you know, that kind of thing?”

David chooses his words more carefully with this one. “I think-I mean, obviously you sometimes get people coming up to you who disagree with you-“

“Yeah, of course-“

“And sometimes those-those particular topics are questions they’ll raise but how-“ He drums his fingers on the counter, as though mulling it over. “How it relates to me and my background, that’s-it’s not an issue that gets raised a lot but people will say-you know, they’ll sometimes make it clear that they disagree with you, but they won’t-I think people do understand that I can understand-some of what they’re going through, and what they’re talking about.”

“How much has being posh held you back, politically?”

“Ah, the old _posh_ question-“

“The posh question-“

“I-look-well, it-“ He laughs, one hand sliding into his pocket.

_“Miliband-“_

_Miliband’s shaking. David can feel it even as he puts a hand on his arm and Miliband yanks himself away as though he’s been burnt. Every part of David flinches and Miliband looks up, something caught in his gaze at that, but then he turns away again, refastening his shirt even as his fingers tremble._

_“Miliband-“ David steps forward, fingers brushing the back of his hand. Miliband jerks away so violently he almost stumbles._

_David stops dead, something hurting. “Here-just-just let me do it-“_

_“No.” Miliband’s voice almost cracks and he drags his sleeve under his nose viciously, looking so young and helpless David wants to pull him into his arms. “No, I’m fine.”_

_“No, you’re not.”_

_Miliband takes a long, shaky breath, his eyes fixed very firmly on the floor. When he speaks, each word is slow and deliberate, as though he’s having to remind himself to say them. “Th-stop thinking you know how I feel.”_

“Well, it hasn’t stopped me from be-becoming Prime Minister-“

James nods, encouraging. “Right-it-it makes it easier, though, for your opponents to say, “The Tories-the party of the rich”, doesn’t it?””

David holds James’ gaze, amused. He doesn’t remember James at Eton, but he’s seen him in a few of the old school photos.

“It-probably does” he says, carefully, Gabby and Craig’s rehearsals on this coming in handy. “Because-they-they quite like making attacks-“

“Hmm-“

“Based on sort of class and background-“

“Hmm-“

“-and things like that-“

“More in sorrow than anger” Craig had said on Friday, George drawing an imaginary tear on his face. “Most people don’t buy into the whole hate-the-rich thing. Got to make it sound like Labour are the ones out of touch.”

 _“I_ think that’s completely out-of-date-“ He looks at James, the words very slightly outraged, features sculpted into an expression of polite incredulity. “I think it switches people _off_ -and at a time when we _need_ people to engage with politics, the whole-you know-“you’ve got to hate anyone who does better than you” line, it just serves to turn people off any kind of engagement.”

“Yeah.” James nods, glances at the cameras, then claps his hands. “Right, I think that’s-“

“Have you got-“

“Yeah, I think we’re-“ James grins. “We can relax now-“

Sam laughs, which breaks the tension in the room a little. David manages a smile, and James, now safe in the knowledge that things are in the hands of the editing studios, touches his elbow. “Now, you can-you can show me how to make the family lunch.”

* * *

_“It wath the lath-st time” Miliband keeps saying, over and over, as though clinging to the worlds will cool the flush of his cheeks, the stickiness of the inside of their boxers, the fact David’s hand keeps brushing his only for Ed to pull away with a sound like a whimper. “It wath the lath-st time.”_

_“You still don’t have to go.” David’s keeping his sentences short, clipped, because he doesn’t trust himself not to stop talking._

_Ed gives him a horrible look then, more horrible because it’s so raw and hurting and his dark eyes are almost wet._

_“I can’t th-stay with you” he says, and the fact the crack in the words means they fail to be cruel doesn’t make them easier to hear._

_“So-what?” David’s following him to the door, as though he can pull him back, as though if he talks long enough Ed might not leave. “What? That’s-that’s it now, is it?”_

_The words sound horribly sensible. David, hatefully, reminds himself that this was what they both wanted all along._

_Ed’s mouth parts very slightly and they stare at each other, their gazes meeting for a heartbeat. David feels both like he’s falling and like he wants to fall._

_Ed’s lips move silently for less than a breath. David waits, and then Ed says, softly, “Goodnight, Cameron.”_

_David pretends, childishly, for a moment that closing his eyes makes it hurt less._

* * *

“Can we go in now?” is all Nancy’s really interested in knowing, if only because she only likes certain vegetables in her salad. (Things that are too green sometimes don’t taste right.)

“Remember, don’t make too much noise” is the last thing Mum says to her, before she lets her and Elwen through into the kitchen (Mum lifting Flo up to carry her in).

Nancy promptly marches up to the counter and asks, leaning over the kitchen island, “Are you done yet?”

 _“Oi-“_ Nancy reaches up for a slice of cucumber as Mum’s voice slices through the air behind her, crunching it as she glances innocently over her shoulder. “What?”

“I know, Mummy said-“ Flo’s voice peals through the air as she takes in the sight of the cameras standing around the kitchen, still new enough to be exciting to her.

“Dad said that they could help-“ Sam says, raising her eyebrows at James.

“I know” Nancy tells her, smiling widely.

“Yeah, Elwen, Nancy-“ Dad gestures them round. “That’s ready for a chop-or help James chop the tomatoes, because I’ve done most of the-El, can you get the lettuce out the bag-“

“Why am _I_ stuck with that?”

“Because you’d cut your hand off” Nancy retorts, seizing the kitchen knife, with her father’s hand fastening in a warning grip on her shoulder just in time. “Nance, careful, because-just chop the tomatoes-“

“Go on.” James steps back with a grin. “You show me where I’m going wrong.” Elwen sticks his tongue out at her as Dad steps up behind him to reach for the bag of lettuce. Nancy does the same back, while Flo climbs up into Mum’s arms, nearly tugging her ponytail loose.

“Here-Flo, you’ve got it all loose, come here-“

“So you’re going to Grey Coat next year, Nancy?”

“Yes.” Nancy reflects that every grown-up seems to be fascinated with where eleven-year-olds are going to secondary school in September-it’s the first thing she gets asked by every one of them. (This isn’t limited to the Cameron children-Lola said that her uncle had told the entirety of his radio station about her getting in, and it was still the first thing he said when he came round for dinner the night after they found out, as though Lola herself might not even know.)

“Looking forward to it?” (This is the second question every grown-up asks.)

Nancy shrugs, which in her opinion is the only answer the question deserves. There’s not much to be looked forward to in more going to school, unless it was something like art school or design. School isn’t really something to be looked forward to, it’s something to be got through successfully, with enough good moments through each day to make it just enjoyable enough to not be hated, which most grown-ups seem to forget all about.

But James Landale is a nice man, and Nancy doesn’t particularly want to hurt his feelings, so she follows up the shrug with “Where’s Ellen going?” Nancy’s only met Ellen, James’ daughter who’s her age, a couple of times at parties and things, but she seems nice enough and knows enough about horses to interest Nancy, who’s found riding them when they’re on Jura or at Kiddington in the countryside a lot of fun.

“Ellen’s-she’s at a prep school-“ James lifts a tomato and chops it, watching Nancy before he does so, though Nancy’s fairly convinced that a man about the same age as her dad is probably able to chop fruit with a degree of success on his own. “So she stays until Year 8, and then she’ll go on to a senior school.”

“Like Dad.” Nancy slices her tomato triumphantly, sliding the pieces aside with a knife. “Does she go to boarding school too?”

“Yeah, she does-“ James carefully moves his slices of tomato onto a plate.

“Does she like it?”

“Yeah, she loves it, yeah-she’s very settled in there-but she comes home at weekends though, and one night a week, so it’s not like-“ James glances at Dad. “Not quite like when we were kids, is it-though I think Alex is going to have a go at the Eton exam-“

Dad’s helping Elwen with a piece of ham. “So, if you give that a chop-yeah, so is he going-“

“No, he is, he is, he’s doing his-he’s at the same school as Ellen, Fairleigh, but he’s-it’s pretty good at prepping them for Common Entrance-“

“Dad didn’t like prep school” Elwen informs them.

Nancy rolls her eyes. Elwen leans round Dad’s front to look at his sister. “He _didn’t-“_

Nancy shoves his shoulder. “Shut _up-“_

“Hey-“ Dad moves her arm back. “Careful-“

Nancy lets him move her back, slightly injured, though not certain why. She’s too young to recognize the protective feeling that rears up in her chest when her father mentions his days at preparatory school because she’s too young to really feel her father needs protecting and because she can’t quite work out yet how she knows, through the slight stiffening of his shoulders, that he wants to veer away from the topic.

“Will I go to boarding school?” Elwen asks suddenly, as he slides down from the stool he’s been kneeling on to sort the lettuce.

Nancy, stepping back, feels her father still very slightly, even as his arm brushes her shoulder. She glances up at him, but Dad looks the same as ever.

“No” he says, lightly, with a quick grin at James. “No, you won’t be going to boarding school.”

Elwen shrugs, neither overjoyed nor disappointed by this information. Nancy’s hand squeezes her father’s arm for a moment, feeling as though he’s needed it and yet not entirely sure why.

* * *

“Right, so this is-“ James gives Sam a quick grin across the counter. “All you’ve got to do is-just one question and that’s it-that’s all we’re-“

“She’ll be fine, she’ll-“ Dave gives her a deeper grin, but his hand reaches out and squeezes hers’ automatically, without either of them even having to glance down. “She’ll outclass me completely-“

Sam’s heart aches at the tight grip of his hand, for how tightly he feels he needs to hang on. She reaches across, on impulse, to kiss his cheek, and feels the way he hugs her close, even across the counter, burying his face into her hair, even though he doesn’t say anything, just breathing her in. If the cameras were rolling, the shot would make the TV screens. But it’s for them, not the cameras, and something about that makes it sweeter and sadder at the same time.

“OK, so you’ll just walk over-“ James gestures at the mug of tea they’ve waited for her to finish, Gabby tidying her hair into place like a proud mother. “Just walk over, and we’ll just have a quick conversation, for some background shots-and then the one question, bit of talking, and that’s it, then we can bring the kids back in.”

“Right-“ Sam retreats to the kitchen table, Gabby still patting her hair into place. “There we go-perfect-“

James gives her a thumbs-up. “There. You’ve outshone us completely-cameras are-rolling-“

The cameras have been rolling all along now-once they started filming the kitchen, they haven’t stopped, even though most of it will be discarded. It’s strange to think about, several hours of their lives caught on tape somewhere in a BBC archive, tiny and micromanaged hours those may be.

“Right-“ She turns round to Gabby and Kate. “Thumbs up-“

Gabby gives her a double thumbs-up, Kate a salute.

“Right-“ Sam gives them a quick smile. “I’m going in-“

She heads across to the kitchen counter, carrying the cup in one hand, aware of the camera settled across the room, taking the scene in, the three of them together, her and the two men across the counter.

“Right-“

“Yes-“

“Now, we’ve got to try and-“ James is already giving her a smile, putting her at ease.

“How are we doing?” Dave asks her, pushing the plate of cold meats forward for her inspection. “Do you think that’s enough?”

“Looks plenty-looks good-“

Dave winks at James. “See, you’ve passed the test now, because otherwise Sam would have made me-“

James laughs.

“Redo the whole thing, right on camera-“

“You can keep it there” Sam tells the cameraman, glancing over her shoulder, before looking back at Dave, who’s grinning at her. “You can-it’s the only time you’ll catch him doing the tidying up-“

Dave’s hand touches hers’ for less than a second, but their eyes meeting, his gaze grabbing hers’, anchoring her.

_“I’d have thought it was different” Sam says, her throat aching as though she’s cried for hours, though she hasn’t cried at all, even if her head has nestled on Cherie’s shoulder a few times. “Because they were the same. From the same party.”_

_Cherie, motherly in a way the press would never have allowed her to be, shakes her head. “Oh no” she says. “In fact, maybe that husband of yours has it a little easier”, and when Sam raises her head to frown at her, Cherie just smiles, a little sadly. “They’re allowed to disagree.”_

_Sam watches her, the answer dawning on her even as she watches Cherie watch her realise. “If you’re allowed to disagree, you sometimes can’t help finding ways you agree” she says softly, sadly. “And if not-“_

_Cherie nods, not needing her to finish the sentence._

* * *

“Right, we’re just going to-one que-in fact, we’re not even going to hear the question, we’re just going to have your answer-“ James claps his hands. “So-one take, basically-“

“Right, OK-“

“So, would you say you want another five years in Number 10?” James gives her a grin over his glasses. Sam’s more aware, though, of her husband’s gaze, and a part of her suddenly longs to lean across the counter, stroke his cheek.

“I mean, if he’s-if he’s voted in again, we’ll be there for another five years” she says, still looking at James. “And obviously, it’s up to the British people, but-I mean, he’s definitely, in my mind, the best man for the job” she says.

She feels Dave relax very slightly, without needing to touch him, and she glances at him again, meeting his gaze.

“And what’s your role in keeping-“ James glances at Dave conspiratorially. “David grounded during this campaign?”

Sam laughs, Cherie’s words from the night before echoing in her ears.

“Ah, well, I hope that me and the family help him-“ She remembers how her eyes, over Cherie’s shoulder, had found Ivan’s, looking out from his portrait, and she snatches onto the memory, holds it tight.

“Me and the children help him-keep things in perspective, keep him grounded-er-help him to sort of pace himself-over the next eight weeks.”

_“The new press regulations will help” Cherie tells her, giving her hand a squeeze. “They’re not allowed to publish any pictures of her arriving at school. It’s not a public interest matter anymore, since you’ve already made it public where she’s going.”_

_“The thing is, all her friends will be going on the tube” Sam points out-she’s already had this conversation with Dave. Cherie winces for her._

_“Nance will be the only one.” Sam sighs, pushes her hair back. “I mean, it’s only for a couple of years, Dave won’t stay the full five, but-it’s still a long time. She’ll be fifteen if he leaves in 2019.” She laughs sadly, almost surprised herself at just how far away it seems. “She’ll be a teenager.”_

* * *

David watches her speak, with the odd feeling that he wants to both laugh and cry. Laugh, because a part of him wants to scramble over the kitchen counter and hug her, hold her against him and breathe her in. Cry, for the same reason.

So he takes a deep breath, and says something lightly, before the feelings rising in his chest can surge into his throat and drown him.

“Sanity check” he says, glancing at James. “That’s what it’s about.”

“Yeah-“

“Definitely-“

Sam’s eyes are already searching out his when he glances across the island at her, and the sight’s like a bruise in his chest.

_“Euan and Nicky hated it after 9/11” Cherie tells her, sipping her tea. “They had to go from travelling on the tube to being driven everywhere. People tried not to make a fuss, but-it makes them-“_

_“Different” Sam finishes the thought sadly._

_Cherie is silent for a moment, before she says, almost as an afterthought, “They’d known something different. But when it came to-“_

_She doesn’t have to say the name._

_“She was too young” she says, suddenly. “She didn’t really know any different” and Sam can’t decide, and knows Cherie can’t either, whether it’s better or worse._

“I hope” Sam says, her gaze holding his, as physical as a touch between them. “I hope.”

* * *

“So, out of pure interest, if you don’t mind me asking-“ James glances up as they sort out lettuce. “How are the-how do the kids understand your job, do they understand what a politician does or-“

“Well, they-Nancy and Elwen-they’re a little bit older now, so they do understand more what being Prime Minister is about-Florence, who’s four-she hasn’t quite got there yet-but Nancy and Elwen are starting to understand a bit more about the job and what it involves and they know that there’s an election coming up-“

“And do they get involved at all?”

“Well, do you know-“ Dad laughs, glancing at them across the kitchen. “They’ve been-we’ve been talking about politics and campaigning and things, a little bit, and they’re very keen that the blue team win and all that, but we were actually talking about _Top Gear-“_

“Ah, right, because of your-your neighbour, family friend, Mr Clarkson-“

“Yes, yes, and-we were talking about this and-er-“ Dad laughs slightly. “Nancy has threatened to go on hunger strike unless Jeremy Clarkson is restored.”

James bursts out laughing, Dad grins, and Nancy, from where she and Elwen are standing at the door, erupts “Oh, for _goodness’ sake-”_

“So what I’ve been saying-I’ve told her-“

Nancy doesn’t hear what else Dad has told her, because Mum’s already marched across the kitchen, steering them each with one hand through the doorway. “James is talking to your dad.”

“Well, he’s talking about _me-“_ Nancy wriggles furiously, only to be pushed through the door.

“No, take that-“ Mum stands across the doorway, preventing Nancy from charging back in. “No, go in the living room-“

“She’s already broken it-“ Elwen manages only these words before Nancy fastens her hand over his mouth.

“This isn’t necessarily a useful intervention-“ Dad’s telling James, with one eye on the commotion now taking place in the doorway.

 _“Oi-“_ By dint of sheer determination, Samantha manoeuvres the two into the hallway. Kate, balancing Florence on one hip, emerges from the living room, and, between the two of them, they manage to manoeuvre all three children to a less potentially interview-ruining distance.

“Yes-“

“This is not exactly Gandhi-“

“No, no, yes-“

“So we had a discussion about this this morning-“

This, sadly, is all Nancy gets to hear of her hunger strike’s first appearance on the BBC before Mum closes the door behind them, preventing her from giving her own interview.

“Once more-“ Mum crouches down, so she’s looking Nancy in the eye. “And you won’t be sitting at the table with everyone else when we have lunch. You can eat at Flo’s little table with Gabby and Kate.”

Nancy jerks her chin up defiantly. “Wouldn’t it look pretty stupid if one of us was missing?”

Kate bites her lip, kissing Flo’s head as she wriggles happily. Mum just raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tempt me.”

Nancy waits until her mother’s gone back into the kitchen before she mutters, “Why don’t you just say you’ve left me in the pub again.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Nancy, who has managed to avoid being relegated to the pub for the second time in her young life, is standing by the dinner table as Gabby turns her slowly back and forth, Kate redoing her ponytail and gently tapping her shoulder to make her stand still.

“I think-“ Gabby glances at Sam. “Yeah, the black jacket over the white blouse, that’ll look-especially with her hair back-“

Nancy waits patiently for Kate to give her ponytail an experimental tug, then, satisfied, pat her free. She slides her arms into the jacket, only for Gabby to carefully smooth it down at her back. Nancy glances at Mum. “How am I meant to sit down if I’m not supposed to wrinkle it?”

“You can wrinkle it” Gabby tells her. “Just not until you sit down.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, then turns to squint suspiciously at the camera standing a few feet away. James winks at her. “It’s only filming the back of your head.”

Mum’s sitting Flo down in a chair at the end of the table. Michael glances at them, then calls Nancy over. “Nance, do you want to sit in the middle-“

Nancy obliges, reaching for Flo with one hand and then catching herself a moment later. Elwen takes his place on the other side, and Michael squints at them. “OK, can we try Flo in the middle, and Nancy and Elwen either side-“

Nancy bumps along the seats, following Elwen.

“Er-hang on, her-her little booster’s here-“ Mum glances up from where she’s half-lifted Flo out the seat. “This is Flo’s chair, we’ll have to-we’d have to move it round-“

“Ah. Good point.”

“It might look a bit odd anyway-bit too uniform, with one of them-you know, tallest in the middle-“

“True, looks a bit Olympics-“ Michael squints, then claps his hands. “OK, Elwen, you go in the middle, leave Flo where she is, and Nance, you go on the end.”

Nancy and Elwen, with much sighing and shoving, swap positions, Elwen crawling along to the middle chair. Nancy takes her place at the end, tugging her jacket around her. She wonders if her ponytail’s come loose at all, but Kate doesn’t seem concerned.

“Right, is that-“ Michael’s looking over their shoulders at James.

“Yeah, looks good, yeah-“

James crosses to the table, as Flo makes a disgruntled little noise, having been lowered back once again into her booster seat.

“OK, so, those guys over there-“ He points at the cameramen. “Are going to tell you when they’ve started filming-but you don’t need to do anything special, you’re just going to-“

“You don’t need to look at the camera-“ Mum’s giving Flo’s hair one final check, patting Elwen and Nancy as she does so, as though to check they’re still there.

“Yeah, you don’t need to look at the camera, you’re just-it’s just like a normal day.”

Nancy resists the urge to point out to James that on a normal day, cameras aren’t in the kitchen and she doesn’t have to have her outfit for lunch approved three times, but from the noise Flo makes, she isn’t the only one thinking it.

“Right, so-“ James claps his hands, as Nancy and Elwen get down from the table-Flo remains sitting, Mum having decided it’s less trouble than going through the rigmarole with the booster again.“I’ll be over there-and they’ll just count you in-“

Nancy takes a look at Dad, but is immediately distracted by Elwen’s foot knocking her ankle as he ducks past her. “Ow, do you _mind-“_

“Well, it’s not my fault your ankles are bigger than-“

 _“Shh.”_ This hiss isn’t from Mum, but from Gabby, who raps them on the head. Elwen scowls. _“Ow-“_

“Three-two-one-“

For a moment, Nancy stands awkwardly, eyeing the plate of meats, unsure of what to expect. But then Elwen says “So if your hunger strike lets you have snacks, are you not having lunch?”

“Oh, would you _shut up-“_

 _“Nance-“_ Dad raises an eyebrow at Elwen, who temporarily subsides, and gets on with moving the salad bowl further across the table so it’s within reach. “So-“

“Right, Nancy’s hunger strike this morning lasted approximately-“

“Yeah, so Nance-“

“Five minutes-“

“How is the hunger strike going?” Dad grins at her. “Enlighten us-“

Nancy rolls her eyes, ramming her elbow into Elwen’s ribs, as he darts round the table ahead of her.

“Oh, well, you see-“ She takes her own seat more slowly, aware of the camera behind her. “The food and the cars-“

“Between lunch and dinner, is what it is, isn’t it?”

“Food and cars actually don’t have a direct connection” Nancy tells him loftily, yanking her plate closer and reaching over Elwen for the plate of meats. “So it wasn’t the best way of making a point.”

“Ah, I see-so it was actually-“

“Yeah, it was actually just-Nancy being smarter than the system-“ Mum tells him, reaching over to spoon some baby cucumber onto Flo’s plate.

“Exactly.” Nancy nods, pleased with herself, as she helps herself to a slice of pork, for all the world as though she’s been starving herself since the night before.

“Mummy-“ Flo’s glancing about from one to the other, occasionally turning her head round to stare at the cameras.

“I think it’s actually more that-Nancy’s working out how to make the system work for her-“

Flo leans round to peer back at the cameras again and Elwen gently takes her face in his hand and tilts it back.

“Flo, you’re not meant to _look-“_ Nancy leans over his shoulder.

“Like-Flo, look at your plate-“

The two temporarily forget their earlier squabble in amusement as Flo tilts her face down slowly to stare at the table, as though expecting something other than a plate to be waiting there for her.

“Right, Nancy, do you want to pass your plate-“ Mum’s reaching across the table. “Or he’ll-“ Her hand’s already reaching for Elwen’s, who’s calmly loaded his plate with several pies and three pieces of meat.

“It’s in his-“ Flo’s voice peals out as she eyes her brother’s plate.

“There-“

“It’s in his _pie-“_ Flo bounces excitedly, her little starfish hands making grabbing motions at the plate of pies, then the plate of meats.

“There, we’ll share one-“ Elwen says, reaching for one of the three pies on his plate with an air of great sacrifice.

“Do you want some ham?” Mum leans over to Flo’s plate, as Nancy takes a bite of her own pie, eyeing Elwen’s plate with interest.

“See, it’s Nance who’s on the hunger strike, El-“ Dad winks at her. “So she should really get-“

“Yeah, but you said it lasted, like five minutes, and Gandhi’s lasted-like-five years or something-“

“Oh my God, for five years, you’d die if you didn’t eat for-like-five _weeks,_ not five years-“

 _“One_ piece of ham” says Flo insistently, big blue eyes staring up at her mother.

“You need protein to make you grow.”

Flo’s mouth presses into a little strawberry pout. _“One_ piece of ham.”

“One and a half-“

“You can have some of-“ Elwen’s in the middle of making another offer-which, for Elwen and food, is a high level of generosity-when James says “And I think that’s-I think that’s it-“

“Really?”

Nancy wriggles round in her chair for the first time, in time to see the red light disappear. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s-“ James grins. “I think we’re done there, that’s-“

Nancy doesn’t quite see her father’s shoulders relax, but she almost feels it across the table. Flo, happily, hums and squashes a tomato against her nose.

“See, now-“ James makes his way round the kitchen counter. “Now, while Michael looks over that footage, I get to-basically be a _guest-“_

“Yeah, James is now getting to try the food-to see if your hunger strike was worth it-“

Nancy has her mouth full, but makes a noise to her mother that seems suitably indicative of her displeasure.

But, as James takes his seat at the head of the table-“So am I the most important person to have sat at this table, aside from the Prime Minister?”-Nancy’s chewing slows slightly, as her gaze falls idly on her father. Almost nobody else would have noticed but at James’ light question, for the slightest second, her father stills, as though James has just reminded him of something he thought he’d managed to forget.

The moment’s over so quickly Nancy would have thought she’d imagined it, except for when she glances at her mother. Mum’s eyes only hover on Dad’s face for a moment, but it’s long enough for Nancy to notice. Their gazes meet across the table for less than a second, before Mum reaches forward to stop Flo rapping out a tune with the salad tongs, but there’s a flicker of, for Nancy, an almost understanding.

She chews more slowly, sitting back in her chair, thinking of the camera behind her. She’d turned round a second before it was switched off, and she thinks of that moment when her gaze met the lense, now tucked away somewhere forever in the depths of the camera, like a big black eye that’s always watching.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Amused-Hunger- “You can hear my heartbeat/Waiting at the door/Lately I’ve been thinking/Thinking about all of you and more/You can take that one step/Just open up the door/We can make it everlasting/This could be deeper than before….We can act as strangers/Feeling like we could have it all/There’s something about us/Something that I crave/We could make it everlasting/Leaving this city in our wake/I don’t know how you feel/But all I want is you/You can be my steering wheel/I’m holding onto you”_

_Bad Guy-Billie Eilish -“I do what I want when I’m wanting to/My soul? So cynical/So you’re a tough guy/Like it really rough guy/Just can’t get enough guy/Chest always so puffed guy/I’m the bad type/Make your mama sad type/Make your girlfriend mad type/Might seduce your dad type/I’m the bad guy, duh/I’m the bad guy…”_

_Manners-We Fade Like Dreams (Instrumental)_

_This Woman's Work-Kate Bush_ _-"I stand outside this woman's work, this woman's world/Ooh, it's hard on the man/Now his part is over/Now starts the craft of the father...Give me these moments back/Give them back to me/Give me that little kiss/Give me your hand/I know you've got a little life in you yet/I know you've got a lot of strength left"_

_Airplanes-B.o.B ft. Hayley Williams- “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?/I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now/I could use a dream or a genie or a wish/To go back to a place much simpler than this/’Cos after all the partying and smashing and crashing/And all the glitz and the glam and the fashion/And all the pandemonium and all the madness/There comes a time when you fade to the blackness…Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?/I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now/Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?/I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now”-this is the song Nancy remembers her, Bea and Liberty singing._

_The Night We Met-Lord Huron_ _-" And then I can tell myself/What the hell I'm supposed to do/And then I can tell myself/Not to ride along with you/I had all and then most of you/Some and now none of you/Take me back to the night we met/I don't know what I'm supposed to do/Haunted by the ghost of you"_

* * *

_Downstairs at Richmond Crescent the combined Blair and Booth clans were gathering. My mum, my dad, Lyndsey (Cherie’s sister) and Chris (Lyndsey’s husband), Tony’s sister Sarah, Bill (Tony’s brother) and Katy (his wife), who was involved with Chinese For Labour and had got its backing for Tony. While I was getting ready upstairs the kids gave me a running commentary about the scruffy-looking types hanging round on the pavement opposite, men mostly, loaded down with cameras and camera bags. About half an hour before we were due to leave, Tony had a word with them and agreed to do some pictures. He suggested the park behind the house where the kids and he often played football. So the photographers got us to sit on a bench while they snapped away: ones of us both looking at each other; Tony looking at the camera and me looking at Tony; and so on. It was the first time I had ever done anything like it at all. The nearest I’d got to experiencing any kind of press interest was at Pat Phoenix’s funeral when I’d led my father into the church._

_The oddest thing of all was being called Mrs Blair, as they shouted out instructions. Most people called me Cherie. My colleagues at the Bar certainly did, as did those involved with the Labour Party, where I was very much a person in my own right. Even at the children’s school, where mothers might be expected to be called Mrs Whoever, I was known by my Christian name as both teachers and the head knew me primarily as a school governor. On a day-to-day level the only people who didn’t call me Cherie were the clerks. To them I was Miss Booth.- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_In September 1995 Euan duly started at the London Oratory School. On the first day of term those mothers among us who could, went with their sons on the tube. They were only eleven, and most of them had never travelled on the underground on their own. We left home at ten to seven having arranged to meet up with Euan’s friend at Arsenal station. At Earl’s Court we changed on to the District Line. By now the carriage was filled with boys dressed in the same uniform and they were chatting and joking to each other._

**_“Did you hear?”_ ** _one boy said to his friend opposite._

**_“Hear what?”_ **

**_“Tony Blair’s son’s going to be in our school today.”_ **

_Euan said nothing but he nudged me, and I gave him a little secret smile._

_From West Brompton station it’s about an eight-minute walk to the school, and that morning our route was lined with sixth-formers to mark out the way from the tube for the new pupils. As we walked down Seagrave Road the atmosphere was jocular and lively. A happy start, I thought, to this new chapter in my son’s life. But as we approached the school there was a flurry of activity and other mothers walking in front of me pulled their children to one side. And then I saw them: three photographers-paparazzi-shouting out my name and running towards us. It was a horrible feeling. It was as if the Red Sea had parted and Euan and I had to walk up the middle, everyone turning to look and these guys running, their cameras held up against their faces. What could I do? If I tried to join the other mothers, it would end up with their children getting photographed as well, which would get me in even more trouble. I kept walking. By the time we got to the gate, Euan was close to tears and while everybody else waited until all the new pupils had arrived, we were bundled in, and then I was smuggled out of another entrance. I got back on the tube feeling upset and angry. Upset for my son, but furious with myself because I had failed to protect him._

_Once back in chambers, I called Tony’s office, told them what had happened and said that, in my view, it was a breach of the Press Complaints Code. It worked. No English newspaper printed the picture, although the “story” was reported. I couldn’t believe it. This was an eleven-year-old boy who was going to be travelling every day through central London on his own. Did I really want him to be recognised? Would any mother? Two years later when Nicky went to the Oratory, he refused point-blank to allow me to go with him on the first day, and who could blame him?- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair _

_One afternoon in mid-November (1999), I had a call from Fiona. I was due to give a speech at the AGM of the Mary Ward Legal Centre, of which I was patron. **“Just to warn you, there may be a slight problem”** she said. Piers Morgan, editor of the Daily Mirror, had just spoken to Alastair and implied he knew I was pregnant. **“He needs him to confirm or deny it, and Alastair can’t lie.”**_

**_“I don’t see why not”_ ** _I said. **“It’s not his baby. Why doesn’t he just say he doesn’t know?”**_

**_“Because he does know.”_ **

**_“But who could have told the Mirror?”_ **

**_“Lauren (Booth, Cherie’s half-sister)?”_ **

**_“No. She doesn’t know. I didn’t tell her.”_ ** _And anyway, I knew my half-sister would never betray me, not over a thing like that. I went through everybody in my head. Sally Morgan wouldn’t do it, nor Anji (Hunter), even though I hadn’t wanted her to know. I was sure it couldn’t have come from the hospital. The scan had been registered under a different name and they hadn’t put me on the computer. There was always Gordon, but what could he possibly have to gain by telling the Daily Mirror?_

_I called Alastair: **“Why can’t you just say that it’s early days and we don’t want to announce it yet?”**_

**_“Don’t be ridiculous, Cherie. This is his big scoop.”_ **

**_“I don’t want Piers Morgan to have a big scoop over my body, thank you very much.”_ **

**_“OK, then we’ll put it out over PA (Press Association). The only to handle it now is to make it a non -Mirror exclusive.”_ ** _This suited Alastair because, if Piers Morgan did get a scoop, the other papers would be furious. For Alastair, dealing with the tabloids was like juggling with raw eggs._

 **_“We’ll have a quote from Tony and a quote from you”_ ** _he said and put the phone down….From then on Cherie and the pregnancy were everywhere. The coverage was so positive that we heard there were some in the Brown camp who thought we’d done it deliberately, in order to undermine Gordon. However there was something rather unnerving about reading Dr Thomas Stuttaford in The Times going on about ancient mothers and the risks of brain damage and the rest of it. **“Of course she’ll have a Caesarean”** the press said, and they had all the diagrams. And I thought, **Actually, wait a minute, guys, this is my body and my decision!** -Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_While Tony stayed at home to keep an eye on the kids, Leo and I-together with Carole and my mum-flew off to Portugal for a week’s holiday. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. Sunshine, good food and gentle exercise. Everything went well until the phone call from my husband on 6 July (2000), telling me he had just come back from the police station with Euan after he’d been found sprawled across the pavement in Leicester Square. **“But he’s home now and he’s safe”** Tony said, when he called to give me the glad tidings. **“I won’t suggest you try to speak to him because he’s incoherent. But you don’t have to worry because I’m in charge.”**_

**_“If you were really in charge, this wouldn’t have happened.”_ **

_It was a short conversation. When I put down the receiver I turned on the television. The news had even reached Portugal. The false name Euan had given was one he used regularly, as he’d been advised to. Having a name like Euan Blair was guaranteed to give him trouble, particularly on the rugby field. Once they knew which one he was, opponents would regularly try to foul him._

_Fortunately I was going back to England the following day and it was a very shamefaced sixteen-year-old who greeted me. His father wasn’t much better. I wasn’t really cross. The press was making a meal of it, but the reality is that had he been the son of anybody else they’d have just said **“OK, don’t do it again.”** As it was, because of peer pressure, he had to be given a formal caution. _

_The local police station was obviously out, so Euan and I were told to take the emergency escape route, a gloomy old tunnel that ran under Whitehall itself, right into the Ministry of Defence. In the event of a terrorist attack or a bomb scare, it would take us straight to the nuclear bunker. A car was waiting for us on the far side of the MoD and we were taken to a police station in south London where Euan made a statement, and was given the caution._

**_“If you don’t get into trouble again”_ ** _the kindly police officer said, **“when you’re eighteen this will be wiped off and there’ll be no record at all.”**_

_Euan looked decidedly cheered: **“You mean once I’ve turned eighteen, no one need ever know?”**_

_My heart sank._ **_My sweet, innocent boy,_ ** _I thought._ **_You don’t realise that they’ll never let you forget that at the age of sixteen you were drunk and were cautioned._ ** _- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair _

_By the time we got back to London (after 9/11), a whole new security regime was being put in place. It had been decided that from now on I would have permanent police protection. What this meant in practical terms was that I stopped going into chambers every day. Like Tony, I could no longer drive; wherever I went I had to have a Number 10 driver and a close protection officer. Once I got back into Number 10, I had to stay there. No picking the children up from friends’ houses, no dropping them off at sports activities, no popping out to the shops, or going for a run in St James’s Park. Everything had to be planned in advance and marked on the appropriate schedule. The children were no longer permitted to travel by public transport. One of my main concerns in keeping their faces out of the newspapers was wanting them to lead lives as normal as possible, which meant tubes and buses. In fact, we had managed surprisingly well. The nannies too were unknown, and could take the children for a hamburger without any fear of them being recognised. Euan was far from pleased. He had been taking the tube to school since 1996 and the idea of being driven by the police did not go down well. Nicholas wasn’t much happier. Kathryn, on the other hand, was still only thirteen and hadn’t fully understood what freedom felt like._

_Security at this level takes some adjusting to. If you have police protection you have police protection: it is not some sort of optional perk. You literally cannot go anywhere without having somebody else with you, and they have to know where you are and what you are doing all the time. One evening that autumn, on the spur of the moment, Kathryn and I decided to go to the theatre, to see Blood Brothers…We were about to set off, when I suddenly remembered. The ‘tecs had left for the day and I hadn’t made any provision for late-night duties. I felt bad but rang them up and said perhaps they could meet us at the theatre. **“I’ll just get a taxi there”**_ _I said._

**_“Sorry, Mrs B. You can’t do that. You’ll have to wait till I get there.”_ **

**_“But we’ll be late.”_ **

**_“Well, then you’ll just have to be late.”_ ** _- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_Another issue was the nuclear bunker. When we first moved in I had inspected it, to see if it was suitable for children. There were army-style bunks, and I couldn’t see how I could ever take them down there. Downing Street staff were divided into groups: Red, Blue, Green and Orange. In the event of an emergency, Red group had to come down with us, the Blues were to muster on the lawn, the Greens were sent home but on call, and so on. Alastair was in the Red group, but Fiona was in the Green group, and I thought, **No way is Alastair going to come in with us and leave Fiona and his kids at home if there’s nuclear Armageddon.** I told the powers-that-be as much. **“Just how realistic is this as a plan?”** They asked if I wanted to bring the children to show them, and I said no. It was totally underground and really spooky. Now I had to address it seriously, so Jackie (the Blairs’ nanny) and I went down, as instructed, taking clothes and games and books for the children. Apart from the hum of the air-conditioning it was as quiet as the grave. Jackie agreed with me that, if it ever came to it, this place would completely freak them out. With the new increase in security levels, the burden on Jackie became ever greater.-Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_Andre (Cherie’s hairdresser) was just getting up steam on my behalf when Alastair came storming into the bedroom. Until now he had refused to talk to me, either sending in Hilary to do his dirty work, or using Tony as a go-between. I think even Tony didn’t want him to talk to me. My husband put himself between us as a shield because he knew Alastair was so angry._

**_“That’s it”_ ** _Alastair said, his arms folded, looking at me via the mirror. **“It’s now political. The Tories are asking questions and your husband is going to have to answer them. One more time, Cherie, did you at any point have anything whatever to do with the immigration case?”**_

**_“I’ve told you, no. You’re determined to humiliate me, aren’t you? I know you’ve been briefing against me.”_ **

**_“I don’t need to. You do it all on your own.”_ **

**_“Don’t you dare talk to Cherie like that!”_ ** _Andre exploded._

 **_“You mind your own business_ ** _” Alastair retorted. **“Remember, you’re just a fucking hairdresser.”**_

 **_“Apologise”_ ** _I said._

_“ **I don’t think so”** Alastair snorted. **“For the last time, I want that woman out of your life.”**_

**_“She has just lost a baby, her boyfriend is threatened with deportation. I’m not going to abandon her. I’ve said I won’t talk to her, isn’t that enough?”_ **

**_“Don’t forget you brought all of this on yourself.”_ ** _I felt terrible for Carole and very weepy…That morning I spent an hour with Lady Wilson, talking about her life in Number 10 in the sixties. Listening to her, I realised that in forty years, little had changed. She had often been lonely and unhappy. She was the first of the Downing Street wives who came from a background that wasn’t “establishment.” Her son Giles had been a teenager when they’d moved into the Number 10 flat, and even after all these years, it pained her to remember the impossibility of him simply getting in and out without a great song and dance being made of it. She remembered how she would wake in the middle of the night to find a garden girl at the end of the bed taking dictation. To retain her sanity, she told me, she would take the bus to north London, where they used to live, and cry on the shoulders of friends. The lack of privacy, the loss of identity-I heard the same stories over and over again. Different women, different backgrounds, different parties, different generations, but all bound together with a strong sense of public service, seeing their role as that of support and comfort to the prime minister.- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_I was the one person not involved. Anji (Hunter) had told me that on no account could I go down to the conference on my own. If I wanted to go, then somebody had to come with me. And suddenly I thought, **This is ridiculous. I’ve been coming to conference for years, what are they talking about? I’m hardly a novice.** So I opened our door, sneaked down the backstairs to avoid the lift, and emerged into the hotel lobby, where I immediately caught sight of Glenys Thornton, my old friend from LSE days, and, later, Hackney co-resident. We were just having a chat, when suddenly there were lights and cameras all around and someone with a microphone asking Glenys who she was. I completely froze. The next moment, I felt a hand on my back and then on my arm, and Hilary Coffman was propelling me towards the lift saying **“Thank you, Cherie”** , and it was back to my prison. The pair of us stood in that lift not saying a word and I felt my blood pounding. I had known Hilary for years. She had been head of press for John Smith, and had also worked for Neil Kinnock. Alastair had brought her in to work for Tony. When the lift stopped at “our” floor, she handed me over to Anji._

**_“I thought I told you not to go down there, Cherie”_ ** _Anji said as she walked me down the corridor. **“You really don’t understand politics.”**_

 **_“Thank you, Anji, but I do understand politics.”_ ** _If looks could kill, she should have been dead. Our relationship was deteriorating rapidly. I couldn’t believe it. I was being treated like a naughty schoolgirl. These people apparently considered themselves empowered to tell me what to do._

_For years I had devoted myself to helping the Labour Party. Trodden freezing streets, given up weekends, evenings. I had even stood as a candidate, for goodness’ sake, retaining my deposit against all the odds. As for my husband, he hadn’t always been surrounded by acolytes tending his every need. I had been there from the beginning, encouraging him when he needed encouraging, listening when he needed someone to bounce ideas off, to talk things through. From first to last we were a team. Hopes, plans, dreams-ours was a true marriage, a joint endeavour. Yet this wasn’t a negotiation with my husband: now it was ten other people saying Cherie Will Do This. Since I was a teenager I had been used to having my own political opinions, and not being allowed to voice them publicly any more was like having a limb cut off. I sensed that I was becoming a non-person. Someone to be wheeled out when appropriate, like an Edwardian child, to be seen but not heard. My humiliation was made worse by the fact that part of me knew that I couldn’t just go down and pretend like I was any other delegate, because I wasn’t. Not any more. I sat in our bedroom and felt highly unsettled, unable to concentrate on anything. I wanted to be involved, just as I always had been, but how could I? It had been made perfectly clear that I wasn’t wanted.- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_By this time Carole was in tears; then she left the room and said she was going to pack. **“How dare you”**_ _I said to Alastair as he stood there, his arms by now folded. **“Don’t think I don’t know about you writing porn for whatever magazine it was. If we were all held accountable for what we did at eighteen then it’s a wonder you didn’t disqualify yourself from this job on several counts, frankly.”**_

**_“Cherie, listen to me, I’m a journalist. I’ve got a nose for these things. That woman is trouble. You can’t possibly trust her. I don’t want anything to do with her, do you hear? There’s bound to be more coming out and if you want to know what I think, I think she’s only here to sell her story.”_ **

**_“So you’re about to expel her from the Garden of Eden, is that it?”_ **

**_“Your words not mine.”_ **

_Then Tony came in and suddenly I felt dreadful. He had been so happy, exultant. All those desperate hours working on the speech had paid off, and now here he was looking like thunder. He wanted to talk to me alone, he said. Alastair bowed out, and we went into the bedroom, and he shut the door. I felt sick._

**_“I cannot believe this, Cherie. My God, this woman has been in our house! She’s been in our bedroom sorting through your clothes. I mean who is this person? What do you know about her? Come on, think about it. What do you actually know about her?”_ **

**_“You know who she is. She’s an exercise teacher. I’ve been going to her classes for years. I was hardly going to cross-examine her about what she’d done when she was eighteen.”_ **

**_“And to think I let you talk me into having a massage.”_ ** _He sat down on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands._

**_“We have all done pretty stupid things when we were young. As for Alastair, he was an alcoholic, for God’s sake. I don’t condemn him for that, and I don’t see why he should condemn Carole for being a bit careless.”_ **

**_“Careless!”_ **

_The next day it got worse. Part of me was hoping that it wouldn’t be her, or the pictures would be faked or something. But it was obviously Carole. Alastair continued his attack. **“You have to drop her, Cherie, it’s as simple as that.”**_

**_“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not going to. It wouldn’t be fair. She has done nothing wrong, and what’s more she’s done a good job and been incredibly helpful to me. You’ve even said yourself that I look great. And by what right do you tell me what company I should keep? It may surprise you to know that I have a life of my own, that I actually enjoy the company of people who couldn’t give a stuff about politics, and I intend to hang on to it.”_ ** _- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

 **_“OK, guys, that’s it. Let’s do the business.”_ ** _The time had finally come: our goodbyes had all been said, tears wiped away. At a nod from Tony, the custodian opened the famous front door with a little mock bow and the six of us trooped out into the June sunshine to face the cameras: Euan, Nicky, Kathryn, Leo, Tony and me, all six of us dressed in what my grandma would have called our Sunday Best, exiting that historic building to **“do the business”** for the last time. I smiled, older and wiser than on the occasion of that first press call in Downing Street on that bright May morning ten years earlier, when we hadn’t even seen inside our new home and anything seemed possible._

_Although I hadn’t wanted Tony to step down, I accepted that now was the right time to go, and with a renewed sense of purpose I kissed each of the children and saw them back into Number 10 where Jackie, our nanny, was waiting to take them to Chequers for our last family weekend there-the final tradition for the outgoing Prime Minister. Tony and I had first to go up to the constituency-he had decided to make a clean break, so needed to resign his seat as soon as possible in order that a by-election could be held before the summer recess. All that remained was for the Rt. Hon. Tony Blair, MP for Sedgefield, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, officially to deliver his resignation to the Queen. As protocol decrees, while he was ushered into the waiting car by the door nearest the pavement-the principal seat, as it’s called-I walked round to the other side behind the driver, closer to the waiting photographers shouting my name, and with the renewed frenzy of snapping came the sarcasm. **“Miss it, will you?....We’ll miss you.”** The sunlight glinted on their long lenses and I thought, not for the first time, how threatening they were. How like weapons. I’d just said goodbye to all these people we’d loved and who’d loved us and I thought, **Actually, I am going to miss all of them, but not you lot, no.** So that’s what came out. I couldn’t help myself. **“Bye. I don’t think we’ll miss you!”** And I laughed._

**_“You can’t resist it, can you?”_ ** _Tony said through clenched teeth as the door closed behind me. **“For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be dignified, you’re supposed to be gracious.”**_

_As the car swung out into Whitehall, I heard a helicopter overhead and suddenly I was filled with a sense of déjà vu. I remembered coming out of our house in Richmond Crescent in 1997,, self-conscious in that red suit bought specially for the occasion, and hearing a voice shouting, **“Hey, Mum!”** and looking up to see Kathryn and Lucy, her cousin, waving down to us from the top floor, and seeing the silhouette of a helicopter against the blue sky, and wondering what it was doing there, not realising of course that it was filming us. All our neighbours were out on the street to see us off, and all the way down to the Euston Road and on to the Palace the pavements were lined with people waving and cheering, and, overlaying it all, the sound of the helicopter pounding the air above our heads, the dark shadow that followed us all the way along the route._

_Sitting in the back of the Daimler ten years later, Tony stony-faced beside me, I sighed. He could hardly claim to be surprised at my outburst. It wasn’t the first time and it was unlikely to be the last-he even calls me his bolshie Scouser. Liverpudlians may be a tough, touchy and belligerent lot, but they have other qualities too. They are risk-takers, fiercely loyal and proud, who look after their own. They’ve had to: Scousers have always been outsiders, hence the humour. There’s an old Liverpool saying:_ **_“If you can’t change it, take pride in it.”_ ** _As for the press and its relentless campaign to paint me as a grasping, scheming embarrassment, I knew, for all my faults, it was simply using me as a way of getting at my husband. I was born into a hard world, raised by strong women and I learnt to cope. The paradox was that in my work as a barrister and a judge-my chosen and hard-fought-for career-I spoke on behalf of other people and was used to being heard. Yet in this other life my voice had been literally unknown. As we drove down the Mall, I realised with a sudden surge of spirit that those constraints were no longer there. I had travelled a long way and learnt so much-the time had come, I decided, to speak for myself.- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

_Leaving your home after ten years is always difficult, and we were all sad to leave, but in my case it was less the building than the people. Although inevitably there are comings and goings in any government-run organisation, among the non-political staff there is some semblance of continuity and over ten years the relationships that you build are not washed away like sandcastles with the next tide. Before walking out of that famous front door for the last time, we had first to walk out of our own front door, the door to the Number 11 flat that for a decade had formed the frontier between our home, with its scattered toys, aquarium, piano, Playstations, guitars, iPods, computers, board games and general family chaos (not to mention my collection of files and law books), and the tight-lipped centre of British political power, a frontier that far too many people seemed to think they could cross without knocking. There were times when all I wanted was to ram a bolt across the door and say Closed. All that was now in the past. On the kitchen table I left a bottle of champagne, and presents for Sarah and the children: I wanted to show Gordon and Sarah the same kindness that the Majors had shown Tony and me. Then, pulling the door of the flat shut for the last time, we made our way, down and then up-there is no direct link between Number 11 and Number 10 on the first floor-to the state rooms, where the staff was already assembled. Tony made a speech thanking everybody for their hard work, and I made a short speech thanking everybody for being so kind and welcoming to us as a family. Then we were asked to wait while everyone else went downstairs to clap us out-the final tradition for all outgoing prime ministers._

_As we stood waiting for the word to proceed, Tony walked across to the window and stood there motionless and alone for a few moments, gazing out over Horse Guards Parade for the very last time. Then, turning abruptly, he led us down that historic staircase lined with portraits of prime ministers where a space now awaited “Tony Blair 1997-2007”, into the hall and corridors below lined with all those familiar faces. I hadn’t anticipated how hard it was going to be to say goodbye, and how emotional. There had been times over the past ten years when the outside world had seemed a very hostile place indeed and the support of the people around me meant more than any of them will ever know. Garden girls, messengers, comms people, drivers, custodians, the ‘tecs-over the years they came to be like an extended family, the only people in the world apart from my blood relatives who knew me as I really was: the Cherie they chatted to about family crises and joys; about relationships and careers; about parenting and children-not the Cherie they saw portrayed in the media. **“It’s a good thing you’ve got a sense of humour, Mrs B”**_ _I remember one of the ‘tecs saying after a particularly unflattering photo of me appeared._

 **_“Luckily the ability to laugh is one thing I’ve never been short of”_ ** _I replied. **“I’m a Scouser, remember. It’s hard-wired, part of the DNA.”**_

 _After all the hugs, the embraces that were hard to pull away from, the bowed heads, the wrists raised to eyes to wipe away tears, the occasional ripple of subdued laughter, there came a moment when it was only the six of us, simply there as a family, standing in that hall with its familiar black and white chequered floor, the long corridor extending away towards the Cabinet room at the back of the building, looking at each other, thinking_ **_, This is it._ ** _Then Tony straightened his back, took hold of Kathryn’s hand and said,_ **_“OK. This is the last time, guys, so let’s get out there and do the business.”_ ** _- Speaking For Myself, Cherie Blair_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All photos of George's 40th here, including ones showing David, Sam, Michael & Sarah:  
> Luke and Liberty playing with the walkie-talkies: https://bit.ly/2ZvCpvY  
> https://bit.ly/38n9gH8  
> https://bit.ly/38p7wx3  
> https://bit.ly/2VWIYqz  
> https://bit.ly/31Ezrbh  
> https://bit.ly/3eUe21j  
> George dancing with Luke, Liberty and Frances:https://bit.ly/2BncVZL  
> https://bit.ly/2ZzMqbx  
> https://bit.ly/31Ijukb  
> https://bit.ly/2ZARaxq  
> https://bit.ly/2VG18N8  
> https://bit.ly/2VIl7KO  
> https://tinyurl.com/yb9lhlsl  
> https://tinyurl.com/y9kgswe9  
> https://tinyurl.com/y7c7xux8  
> Dave with Luke & Liberty:https://bit.ly/3eW8GCK  
> https://bit.ly/3dUNR9A  
> https://bit.ly/2YSoNLZ  
> https://bit.ly/2ZppUBS  
> https://bit.ly/2C0Ostb  
> https://tinyurl.com/y7apgj7c  
> https://tinyurl.com/ybkbzyjg  
> https://tinyurl.com/yddadu3e  
> Frances, Luke & Liberty listening to George's speech, & George with them:https://bit.ly/3dPjVM0  
> https://bit.ly/3eUfil3  
> https://bit.ly/3eUQtFN  
> https://bit.ly/38nP3Bl  
> https://bit.ly/2NProjN  
> https://bit.ly/2YTWVYb  
> https://bit.ly/2ZqPnuU  
> https://bit.ly/3is695m  
> https://bit.ly/3dUNR9A  
> Luke and Liberty:https://bit.ly/38lvNV3  
> https://bit.ly/31Eyz6s  
> https://bit.ly/3dTT8y4  
> https://bit.ly/2NNg07S  
> https://bit.ly/3gn41KA  
> https://bit.ly/2C0RjSV  
> https://bit.ly/2VIKfRT  
> https://bit.ly/3goFTHA  
> Poppy:https://bit.ly/3ioVJ6y  
> https://bit.ly/3ioPgbY (with Gabby & Kate)  
> https://bit.ly/31CrDqe  
> https://bit.ly/3ePXbgd  
> https://bit.ly/38mWqsr (with George's arm round her)  
> https://tinyurl.com/yd33zxut  
> Liberty on the floor:https://bit.ly/3ipvEV7  
> Liberty in her dressing gown:https://bit.ly/3dS05Qo  
> https://bit.ly/2Zu0TWt  
> https://bit.ly/3ipLJdl (with Matt Hancock behind her)  
> https://bit.ly/3ipyZU9  
> https://bit.ly/2YTuBF5  
> George would date Thea in 2020 after his separation from Frances-it was an open secret they'd had an affair, & rumoured he'd had others. It would lead to widespread derision from his peers: https://bit.ly/3dW4eCT  
> http://dailym.ai/3eT3nE8  
> https://bit.ly/3il4sHb  
> https://bit.ly/31DUsmj  
> https://bit.ly/2YTuhWX  
> The affair (and others) were frequently hinted at but not outright stated: https://bit.ly/3eW1J4y  
> https://bit.ly/3ipxKnR  
> https://bit.ly/2BnVRmr  
> https://bit.ly/3irPEGs  
> http://dailym.ai/3giREPA  
> http://dailym.ai/2Zx8of9  
> https://bit.ly/31Lat9U  
> https://bit.ly/3ijoOk1  
> https://bit.ly/2NR6Ffe  
> https://bit.ly/38rcObt  
> Thea was not always popular: https://tinyurl.com/y87u85gm  
> An interesting clip of George "playing" with Thea's head, which partly inspired the scene in this chapter with him refusing to text her, is here from 2016-he calls her to help with his tie then ignores her as she tries to speak to him while walking out the building: https://bit.ly/2C0EE2l  
> Thea was also rumoured to have had an affair with Craig, before his marriage broke up-she worked as a producer for Nick R at the BBC beforehand:https://bit.ly/3eZFdrG  
> https://bit.ly/3gpFKTV  
> George's 40th birthday:https://bit.ly/3eV8nIh  
> The headline Liberty references:https://bit.ly/2YWd3sa  
> George and Liberty's relationship:https://tinyurl.com/uwow3y4  
> Poppy was George's former aide & moved to the US in 2012 when she got married-she also had her closeness with George spark rumours:https://bit.ly/2C0jyku  
> https://bit.ly/2NR20tL  
> https://bit.ly/3irTjnG  
> https://bit.ly/2BYrpPx  
> George took her to Wimbledon with him in 2017, around the time rumours about him and Frances divorcing were reported:https://bit.ly/2AogPko  
> https://bit.ly/2NNYD6L  
> https://bit.ly/3ggqQPO  
> https://bit.ly/38khNuH  
> The scenes at the football match, David & James walking in the village, Dave & Sam in the kitchen, & the kids being filmed with Nancy talking about her hunger strike:https://bbc.in/3eW4AdQ  
> https://bit.ly/31ErnHx  
> Nancy & her "hunger strike":http://dailym.ai/2NR4yrP  
> https://bit.ly/2YSjPij  
> https://bit.ly/2YSSRHk  
> https://bit.ly/3gm1sIF  
> Kate's kids:https://bit.ly/3itEhOC  
> The Camerons' country home: https://bit.ly/3eVhFnT  
> https://bit.ly/3gdy5Z0  
> https://bit.ly/2ZzEUNR  
> Dave at Elwen's football match:http://dailym.ai/2YTQcNV  
> http://dailym.ai/2YSlft9  
> George & Alastair's "macho" exchange, backstage at the 2010 debates: https://tinyurl.com/yc9ql4ow  
> 


	13. A Cumulative Cabinet, Ambivalent Anticipation And The Televisual Qualities Of Breakfast Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Alastair could have had a chance with Princess Diana and coalition is a flavour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, guys. So it's been-seven months? Wow. What a disgrace. IN MY DEFENCE, real life has been CRAZY, even in lockdowns. I hope-HOPE-this chapter makes up for it. (IT'S ALIVE!) Thank you so, so much, for all your comments and asks and messages, and I'm so, so, sorry it took this long, I hope this SOMEWHAT makes up for it.  
> In all seriousness, it took me a long time to figure out how to approach certain parts of this chapter, and I rewrote certain bits quite a few times to try and get the tone right and respectful, if that makes sense. TW: this chapter does mention Ivan bc it deals with an interview during the election campaign. The references for this chapter are also INTENSE, to the point that I just split them mostly into sections at the end, because I have no life and a worrying tendency to treat fun like a university thesis. If you want to read an article linked and can't, just send me a message!  
> Definitely, as always, leave a comment if you like it or send me an ask or message at [my Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) -I love hearing from you guys!  
> Hope you like it-and the next chapter will DEFINITELY be up far more quickly! Enjoy!  
> David on Ivan: https://bit.ly/3swrNKi  
> The Cameron Years-the first episode deals with future events implied here and the second with, among others, Ivan:https://bit.ly/3szZ9HU  
> https://bit.ly/3b33UUJ  
> Events in this chapter around Flo's cabinet and Sam's interview:https://bit.ly/2Oc2fmv  
> https://bit.ly/3r5ROj5  
> Dave speaking about Ivan:https://bit.ly/3q2kDf9  
> https://bit.ly/2O8CaES  
> Five Days That Changed Britain-about the formation of the coalition:https://bit.ly/37Pz9Az  
> David's first article about Ivan: https://bit.ly/3krKdsQ  
> More on Ivan:  
> https://bit.ly/3kozH5i  
> https://bit.ly/2O3lwGG  
> https://bit.ly/3bKjL9A  
> https://bit.ly/3stNZV7  
> https://bit.ly/3uGapVa  
> https://bit.ly/3aWD2Ws  
> https://bit.ly/3bDMsVP  
> https://bit.ly/3kBUjrb  
> https://bit.ly/3dNrne9  
> https://bit.ly/3q7JbmF  
> News reports on Ivan, and Nancy and Elwen with him:  
> https://bit.ly/3bDAr2J  
> https://bit.ly/3byYa3O  
> https://bit.ly/3bHrKEl  
> https://bit.ly/3uwDAtD  
> https://bit.ly/3uC5BjM  
> https://bit.ly/3usxtGK  
> https://bit.ly/3pZnmFU  
> https://bit.ly/2NxyOf1  
> https://bit.ly/2Mq8brC  
> https://bit.ly/3q0gLuW  
> https://bit.ly/2O3MRIQ  
> https://bit.ly/3usyj6m  
> https://bit.ly/3qXoKu6  
> https://bit.ly/3bKlPOS  
> https://bit.ly/3pU88SM  
> https://bit.ly/37QYBWf  
> https://bit.ly/2Ms26uV  
> https://bit.ly/3dMJyR8  
> https://bit.ly/3kq4EpO  
> https://bit.ly/3krY6XC  
> https://bit.ly/3dUeCid  
> https://bit.ly/3uAYF6c  
> https://bit.ly/2NyloPX  
> https://bit.ly/3dP5IlJ  
> https://bit.ly/3bFtWfM  
> https://bit.ly/3pWpsXc  
> Gordon Brown's tribute to Ivan:  
> https://bit.ly/3bD3TpC  
> https://bit.ly/3qXAay1  
> https://bit.ly/37Os2IK  
> Ivan's funeral:  
> https://bit.ly/3uyq6NY  
> https://bit.ly/37Rjdhf  
> https://tinyurl.com/2sd8wtd3  
> David and Sam visiting Ivan's school:https://tinyurl.com/upbs47m6  
> Emily on Ivan:https://bit.ly/3qWm7sD  
> https://bit.ly/3sws8g2  
> Nancy's bond with Ivan:https://bit.ly/2O3lYom  
> https://bit.ly/3bD1ew8  
> https://bit.ly/3aTxpYM  
> https://bit.ly/2MvzuRw  
> One of the black and white photos Sam mentions:https://bit.ly/2NJeKpZ  
> Nancy as a baby with Ivan:https://images.app.goo.gl/cs5JbjGu51rvq5ju6  
> The last photo of Ivan:https://bit.ly/2ZUa1V0

_As Samantha points out some years later, for those of us in the core team, half our adult lives were spent in the all-consuming Project Cameron. So, it is hardly surprising that we shared so much-not just our political journey, but in life, including some we lost along the way._

_Like Ivan._

_Around 7.30am on Wednesday, 25 th February 2009, my mobile rang. This was towards the latter part of our years in opposition, and I was busy preparing the children for school before heading off to the office. I wedged the phone under my chin. It was Ed (Llewellyn). **“I’ve got awful news”** he said, **“so prepare yourself.”**_

**_“What’s happened now?”_ ** _I replied, not too concerned. Most days in politics tend to start with a drama._

**_“No, really,”_ ** _he said. **“This is different.”**_

_And he was right. I certainly did not expect to hear the terrible news that David and Samantha’s son Ivan, aged six, had died in the night.....For while Ivan could not sit up and I never saw him eat other than through a tube he was a beautiful child with a serene presence, always watching his parents from his chair, or from the special mound they had made for him in the garden. A large picture of Ivan smiling hangs on the wall of Samantha and David’s kitchen, and a smaller version of the same picture always sits on David’s desk…._

_On that Wednesday morning in February, I could barely take in the heartbreaking news of Ivan’s sudden death. My phone started to ring. Another call from Ed. He had been speaking to Andy and it was their decided view that someone had to go round to the Camerons’. The story was about to break any minute and they would need the support. I headed over to Notting Hill with a heavy heart, calling George on the way to break the sad news to him. I didn’t want him to hear it first on the radio._

_Nancy and Elwen were alone with their babysitter when I arrived. They were young and clearly confused about what was going on. Soon after, David and Samantha returned. Shattered, they collapsed into chairs in the sitting room. After tears, hugs, and a lot of tea, we drafted some words for the press and I set off back to the office. I found George, Michael Gove, and William Hague working on a statement in David’s office. They were visibly upset but trying to be professional. Gordon Brown cancelled PMQs; he would pay tribute to Ivan instead, reflecting of course on his own terrible ordeal after the death of his baby daughter, Jennifer Jane, years before. It fell to William, as David’s deputy, to respond. No one was more skilled for such a sad task than the great orator and scribe who is William. Gordon began movingly: **“The death of a child is an unbearable sorrow that no parents should ever have to endure.”** Michael and George, seated on either side of William, looked close to tears.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Although Ivan was their first child, they quickly sensed that something was wrong. At Queen Charlotte’s, he appeared to have occasional spasms. Otherwise, he seemed a very sleepy child and Samantha struggled with breast-feeding. But the health visitor paying the routine postnatal call to Ginge Manor, where mother and baby had gone after leaving Queen Charlotte’s, saw no reason to be alarmed. Within a week it was clear that Ivan, still very sleepy, was losing weight. Sometimes his hand would spring open in a series of small but repetitive impulses. As first-time parents, David and Samantha Cameron had nothing to compare their son’s behaviour to and, reassured by the advice of the health visitor, showed off their son to Dominic and Tif Loehnis that weekend. But, as Ivan entered his second week, the jerks were becoming more pronounced. Annabel Astor had become sufficiently concerned to drive her daughter-on her birthday-and grandson to the local GP. The doctor’s diagnosis was that the newborn was suffering from a kidney malfunction. He directed them to the Accident and Emergency department of the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. It was here that the baby had his first major seizure in front of a doctor. The nature of Ivan’s condition was beginning to be shockingly apparent. David Cameron, joining his wife at the hospital, shared her distress as their tiny child was subjected to forty-eight hours of blood tests, brain scans and lumbar punctures. -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Dr Mando Watson, Ivan’s consultant paediatrician, said that with a patient like Ivan **“the important thing is to stabilise the condition. We try to control the seizures, treat any chest infections with physiotherapy and oxygen and also treat the disability-help them feed and make them comfortable so they can live as full a life as possible. The challenge is to enable these children to maximise every precious day. You have to get the balance right between having them in hospital and doing horrible things to them to make them better, which is also disruptive to the family, or saying: “This may help a bit, but it will mean several days in hospital, so let’s leave it.” Getting that balance is all important.”** -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_But like so many things to do with the human spirit, there is a resilience that you didn’t know you had. You feel such strong bonds of love, and such desire to protect this beautiful little creature, that something inside you helps you through….Today, when I think of Ivan, I think of how we **did** cope. I think of the smiles and the holidays. Covering his legs with warm sand on the beach in Devon. Or trying to get him to sit on a pony. Or lying with him for hours on my lap or on my tummy. Having a bath with him and the other children, with Nancy and Elwen gently washing his hair. Swinging in a hammock and listening to him gurgle with pleasure. The happy memories are now at the front of my mind. _

_But if I think for too long, I also remember the seizures. He could have twenty or thirty in a day, lasting for minutes, or sometimes hours, his small frame racked with spasms and what looked like searing pain. By the end, his clothes would be drenched in sweat and his poor little body exhausted. And so often, there was nothing we could do. It was a torture that I can hardly bear to remember. For Samantha, the mother who bore him and who loved him so deeply, it was a torture that was tearing her apart. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Wanting to know whether we could have other children, we signed up for “genetic counselling”, which in 2003 was very much in its infancy. This was another field in which we discovered how little is actually known. To start with, no one had any idea whether Ivan’s condition was inherited or not. If it was, there might be a one in four chance of it happening again. If it wasn’t, it was one in many thousands. So we were offered a sort of “blended probability” of one in twenty. Remembering how few of my father’s 20-1 shots ever came in at the races, we decided to risk it. It was one of the best decisions we’ve ever taken._

_Nancy arrived in 2004. We were so worried something might be wrong that every movement she made was carefully watched and analysed. We needn’t have worried: she was the easiest of babies, and hit every milestone on time. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_In his (Ivan’s) first years, there was a sense that his parents could communicate with him. They learned to make some sense of the slightest of signals. Little signs (a stretch, or a smack of the lips) seemed to mean **“more food.”** Chief among these signals was his smile. Often Ivan would smile as soon as he heard one of his parents coming into the room. It was the sign that they were doing something right, that beyond the seizures and contortions, there were moments of mild serenity. Through this slender but vital channel of communication they found that he liked animals (they took him to a neighbouring farm either at Peasemore or at Dean), and that he enjoyed feeling the wind on his face (so they took him for plenty of walks in his specially adapted buggy) and going swimming (a constituency neighbour kept his pool suitably warm)….Giles Andreae witnessed the couple’s love for Ivan from close quarters. **“It’s amazing, quite surreal, when you see Ivan sitting on their knee,”** he said in 2005. **“He’s huge, and they have him sitting like a little baby. There is utmost affection in their eyes. The way they have responded to that has been deeply and utterly extraordinary. You can only collapse into cliché. They think that every day is a bonus. The material affection is tangible. It’s unlike the parent of a normal child. There’s nothing he can do, so what manifests itself is a kind of angelic aura, supported by the fact that he has a very beautiful face-big dark eyes and big eyebrows and full dark hair. The set of his face is very composed, which you kind of translate as “sweet”. He’s like a great big angel. You’re kind of drawn to that goodness. They are genuinely passionate about him. It’s a really moving thing to see.”** -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_We were always determined not to hide Ivan away. While he could never tell us his likes and dislikes, we sensed that he liked the stimulation of being out and about in the fresh air. So he would be fed on trains and planes, in pubs and restaurants, usually with a gaggle of other people’s children watching. Occasionally one of them would ask if the tube was there because he had been naughty and not eaten his tea. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Over the weekend, Nick Clegg felt tired and unwell-not an ideal start for a general election campaign. But he had been working non-stop every day, without a break, since the beginning of the year. On Sunday, he spent the whole day in bed. Then, to make matters worse, he ripped the muscles in his back while exercising on Monday morning. It was the last full week of coalition government, and on Monday morning the Deputy Prime Minister arrived at his office in Whitehall in a filthy mood feeling like death warmed up. But business had to go on, and Monday 23 March was the occasion of the last bilateral with the Prime Minister, in Cameron’s small office adjoining the Cabinet Room._

_It might have been the last meeting, but there were still a range of middle-rank issues on the agenda: some Home Office disputes, a discussion of the Dissolution Honours List, and the sensitive issue of financial support for the children of asylum-seekers. But it was obvious to Nick Clegg that the Prime Minister had bigger things on his mind, with just over six weeks until the general election._

_And then the meeting was over. No champagne. No fireworks. But no rows or poison either-not a bad achievement for two leaders of very different political parties after five years in power together._

_When he got back to his office, Nick Clegg reflected on his last formal meeting with David Cameron: **“Well, that’s it then. It’s obvious that his mind is turning to another coalition, and he said to me that we should keep our options open for 8 May. I think by now, after five years, I know Cameron pretty well-his strengths and his weaknesses. Despite everything, I find him good fun and easy to work with. And he is often at his best when really under pressure. He has a fast, quicksilver mind. But he has his flaws too. I’ve become disenchanted by his carelessness over issues such as Scotland and the Union. His judgements on policy are swift and not always very well thought through. But my God, he has a classic nose for political survival. He ducks and he weaves. He always believes that he can get himself out of a tight corner. One day, he won’t.”** -_ _ Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws _

_Samantha and David returned to their home (following Ivan’s death) to find photographers waiting outside. Pictures of the grief-stricken couple duly appeared on most of the front pages the following day, but in an uncharacteristic display of restraint the press, at the request of the couple, forbore from reusing the pictures the following Sunday and from printing a heart-rending picture of Cameron with Ivan’s empty buggy. -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_A subject that cropped up constantly between the two was whether to try for more children. Was there a genetic problem that might be replicated? Ohtahara syndrome is a convenient but imprecise term, and belongs to the wider family of epilepsy-related conditions. Surprisingly little is known of the causes, although in Ivan’s case the circumstances of his birth were not thought to have been at fault, as can be the case. Samantha has said that in a way she was relieved that the explanation seems to have been an **“act of God”** rather than a birth problem, which would be more difficult to take. Beyond that, the doctors couldn’t be sure. If the cause was genetic, they were told, the chances of it recurring were said to be one in four. If it wasn’t, then they were one in several thousand. All in all, their genetic counsellor put the chances at about one in twenty. **“I remember them being worried when they heard that there was one couple to whom it had happened twice,”** remembers a friend, which made them think the cause was genetic._

_But Cameron’s optimism was beginning to reassert itself: they decided that yes, they would take the chance. A few weeks after Ivan’s first birthday, when the couple were near their lowest ebb, at last came some good news. Samantha was pregnant. The worries that went with that were undeniable, but the tests during her pregnancy were reassuring. On 19 January 2004, Nancy Cameron was born. She was thoroughly healthy, a triumphant vindication of the couple’s decision. Samantha Cameron felt the relief even more acutely than her husband. **“She was a different person until she had Nancy,”** says a friend. **“Sam is so happy-go-lucky and giggly normally, but there is a deep-down sadness which will never completely go away. She has recovered to an enormous degree, though, since Nancy arrived.”** -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_And then The League had come back one last time. They’d had bids from the Mail and the Sun for a big election interview with Samantha. The Mail On Sunday was offering You magazine. Ten pages and the cover. And he’d thought, **“They want ten pages with me?”** But then they’d explained it. And he’d looked at them hard, because he knew what it meant. And they knew what it meant._

_So he’d explained it to her. How they’d want the flat. And the kids. And most of all, how they wanted her. And how they’d want to talk to her about Ivan._

_She never talked about Ivan. Not to anyone. She couldn’t. He’d tried to explain it to The League. But there was no way they could properly understand. Thank God they couldn’t understand._

_But the two of them had sat down, and they’d talked about it. Run through what the Mail wanted. And how this would be the last one. Even though he knew he’d said it before. But this really was it._

_And she’d agreed. Partly for the reasons he always trotted out when he was asked about this stuff. Because they loved each other, and this was a joint journey they were both on, and she wanted them to see the real David Cameron, and she was prepared to do anything she could to help him succeed._

_And partly because he’d failed. All the walls had crumbled now. The red lines, all the things he’d promised her, all the things he’d promised himself. One by one they’d disappeared. He’d tried to protect them all, as much as he could. But in the end he hadn’t been able to._

_So they’d discussed the final red line. Across one wall of the flat was a giant picture of Ivan. No one outside had ever seen it. Whenever they’d had anyone filming in there-even when people like Michelle Obama had been up there-no one had been allowed to show that picture. And that was the one thing they still wouldn’t give up. They wouldn’t let them have Ivan’s photo.- One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

* * *

_Ed: **My dad’s no longer alive, but neither of them were religious people, they were, I think the wartime experience gave them a sense of the sort of preciousness of, of life, and the importance of, sounds a bit corny, but leaving the world a better place. Now, my dad did, tried to do it through teaching and writing and being an academic but I think that sort of-and they didn’t say to us “You’ve got to go and-be involved in politics,” or anything but it was just sort of, you know, the people who came through the house, the sort of-the, the, the kind of ethos was of sort of politics. And I mean, I remember, you know, you just meet, I met this, I (had) this amazing experience when I was twelve years old, I think I was twelve, I met this woman called Ruth First, who had been my dad’s student. She was married to the head of the South African Communist Party, Joe Slova, who later became a member of Mandela’s Cabinet. And a few months after I met her in London, she was killed by a letter-bomb sent by the South African Secret Police to Mozambique, where she was teaching. And, you know, I mean, that just has a profound effect on you as a kid when you come down one morning to find your parents both in tears because their, their friend’s been blown up. They couldn’t get to him-Joe-because he was protected but they could get to her. You know, when you have that experience, you, it kind of makes you kind of think politics really matters.-**[ The Political Party,](https://soundcloud.com/thepoliticalparty/show-57-ed-miliband-live)1st March 2018_

_Ed: **They (the museums in South Africa) have special resonance for me, because, as some of you may know, my, my family were friends with two people called Ruth First and Joe Slovo-Joe Slovo was the Secretary-General of the South African Communist Party, which, obviously, was banned, and Ruth First was his wife, and also a prominent ANC activist. One of my formative childhood moments was meeting Ruth First in 1982, Ruth First and Joe Slovo-look, there’s lots about Ruth First and Joe Slovo at this museum, at both museums, because both of them were big, big prime movers in the struggle (against apartheid). Ruth First was murdered by the South African Secret Police by the-a letter-bomb sent to her office in Mozambique a few months after I met her and this was (an) incredibly formative experience for me because, you know, the idea that politics could be a struggle of life and death-and I remember my dad always used to say…she had been my dad’s student in the LSE, (he was) her tutor, then (she) became a lecturer at Durham, and he said, he always said she could have taken a sort of easier life, which was to just stay in, in the UK, and not engage in the struggle and she chose the sort of really difficult path to be sort of central to the struggle and paid with her life, and, you know, in a way, it put the political struggles we face (in the UK) in some kind of perspective and also-I just had this incredible insight into the, the, what courage looks like.** -[Reasons To Be Cheerful](https://play.acast.com/s/reasonstobecheerful/121.thesky-sthelimit-reininginthefatcatpaygap), 13th January 2020_

_Ed: **When I was a child, my father used to tell me a story about two sheep who lived on the Yorkshire moors, called Booboo and Heehee. And I loved the stories that he used to tell me and they were of the sort of-a big giant and some sort of a guy called Jonathan Pillowcase-anyway, it was quite a sort of brilliant story and I used to love to read. Anyway, I’ve been telling my kids this story as well.**_

_Geoff: **Is it from a book or just from your father’s imagination?**_

_Ed: **No, just made it up! We lived in Leeds when I was between the ages of three to seven, three and seven, so sort of-the Yorkshire moors and all that. So (I’ve) been telling this story to my kids since they were young and they really liked the story and it’s kind of become sort of embroidered and a lot sort of (added) to it….The Chief Magician is called Amanda Chairleg. She, she’s the sort of, she kind of-**_

_Geoff: **What I love is that we’re really seeing your dad’s brain at work as he looks round the room and-**_

_Ed: **Well, no, my-Amanda Chairleg is mine,, actually.**_

_Geoff: **Congratulations.**_

_Ed: **Yeah, yeah, she’s in the sort of-she’s in the kind of sequel, you know.**_

_Geoff: **Yeah, right.**_

_Ed: **My sequel.**_ _-[ Reasons To Be Cheerful,](https://play.acast.com/s/reasonstobecheerful/127.manenough-promotingpositivemasculinity) 24th February 2020_

_Charlie: **How did you go about preparing-you know, how much thought really went into those outfits?**_

_Samantha: **A lot. So obviously you would do your best to make it look kind of effortless and natural, but the reality is that when you are being photographed and particularly being photographed getting in and out of cars, getting on stage at party conferences, standing, you know, having lots of kind of photographers sort of at your feet in some cases, so just looking up your skirt, you do, you do have to be really prepared, and if you’re going to get up on a stage at a party conference, having been sitting down for an hour, watching your husband, obviously adoringly, as he’s giving his speech, you don’t then want to look, have your clothes be really creased or look a crumpled wreck when you get on stage, so we did, we would, you, you would have to spend a lot of time trying on different outfits, seeing what would work, sometimes, we would even, you know, photograph them to see what they would look like in a photograph, ‘cos sometimes, you know, what would look good, you know, if you were just going out for dinner with your friends, suddenly the scrutiny of a kind of camera and a kind of full-length shot also doesn’t look quite as good as you thought it did when you looked in the mirror. So there was a lot of preparation and thought went into it, ‘cos you’re trying to look appropriate while, you know, in a situation that is not normal to your everyday life, while trying to feel like you’re looking like yourself as well, and sort of adhering in some way to your own personality.**_

_Isabel: **And I think that goes for any woman in a very senior level who’s representing their company and suddenly being photographed or doing media and any female politician-you know, there’s a list of them-that you do have to put that time and effort in and it’s OK to, and that’s where I come in, or many other people like me, but I think it’s thinking through those situations, being a step ahead or, or knowing what you’re expected to do on this visit or-I remember going to cobbled streets because, it sounds very silly, but suddenly, if you’re wearing very high heels down cobble streets and trying to keep up with all the flat-footed men, in their heels, you know-it’s, it’s being prepared and one step ahead and that’s the advice I’d give to anyone who’s in a position where they’re going to be photographed or videoed.** -[Fashion Unzipped, 26th October 2018](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/fashion/style/fashion-unzipped-podcast-samantha-cameron-isabel-spearman-outfit/)_

_Charlie: **What disasters did you have at Number Ten, then, if any?**_

_Samantha: **I get-it would normally be, oh, and we had lots of outfit disasters, forgetting the right underwear, so not having a nude bra to wear under something, and I remember, you know, having some poor girl working on Dave’s team having to lend me her bra at one party conference!**_

_Isabel: **Oh my goodness-**_

_Samantha: **Because we couldn’t get to Marks & Spencer and back in time by the, by the time I realised that I’d left it at home. I forgot a pair of shoes one time and again, I had to sort of wrestle some shoes off kind of, I think it was George’s assistant. I had, we had zip..zips that would break just before, you know, you’d be trying to do the zip up, and it would suddenly break just before you were about to kind of have to go and stand on the front steps of Downing Street, and I think the worst was a party conference where I’d just had a baby and I’d sat down in the chair in the party conference hall and I’d heard this sort of ominous kind of rip all the way down one, one side of the dress, and, and then sort of thinking all “What am I going to do, I’ve got to walk up and onto the stage in front of all these people in this auditorium and kind of, you know, all of the British press and on TV-“-and luckily, they, the, the, one of the team sort of smuggled a sort of scarf to me and I kind of remember holding this scarf against my-and trying to sort of make it look natural and not awkward against my side as I went up onto the stage and we did, we did get away with it! Nobody noticed.-**[Fashion Unzipped, 26th October 2018](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/fashion/style/fashion-unzipped-podcast-samantha-cameron-isabel-spearman-outfit/)_

_Samantha: **The apartment’s (in Downing Street) amazing, they’re, they’re, all the people who work in Downing Street are incredibly supportive. I mean, the, the apartment’s big, I mean, you, you know, so you’ve got lots of space and there are kind of solid concrete floors and the windows have all got some sort of bombproof double-glazing, so when you’re in the flat, you’re-it’s incredibly quiet, you feel a bit like a sort of princess in a tower, kind of, you know, it’s sort of very-you can’t hear anything going on, even though there are hundreds of people in the rest of the building, you’ve got these amazing views over St James’ Park, and Horse Guards Parade, and you can’t hear anything at all because the walls are sort of so thick….but Florence did used to have a sort of fairly free run of all the offices as she was a toddler as-she was very spoilt there. I think she-she was the one most sad to leave.**_

_Emma: **Has she got used to it?**_

_Samantha: **She was-well, yes, she had all those people doting on her, giving her sweets and biscuits, her-although I tried to (say)-“Hey, can you maybe not give her sort of sweets every time she comes in the door?”-and she had so much attention, they became like this huge extended family so I think it was quite strange for her when-**_

_Emma: **“Where are all the people?”**_

_Samantha: **-when we went back and she was like, “I’m stuck with you sort of four? Where is everyone?”-**_

_Samantha: **So when you’re on a campaign trail-both outside Downing Street and when you’re on a campaign trail-I mean, you are in a bit of a clothing panic all the time as, as a woman-so your skirt blowing up, you know, what, what pants you-big, big pants were always a good idea, just in case-hair, I had some terrible hair moments-standing on a cliff, I can’t remember where it was, in Dorset or somewhere, and I remember on the front page of all the papers, my hair was in a sort of-er-a sort of hurricane-like spiral on the top of my head-so yes, you do have to think quite carefully about all of that stuff, can you get in and out of a car without, you know…showing your knickers-you have to think all of that stuff through-and then quite carefully-**_

_Emma: **Which the men don’t.**_

_Samantha: **No, no, they don’t.**_

_Emma: **I mean, the hair can blow, if they’ve still got it!**_

_Samantha: **Yeah. And the worst was, I think the worst was at the party conference when-I think eventually I asked to be sat in the row behind the front row ‘cos otherwise, you’re having to sit there for an hour, and all the cameramen or-and women-are sitting at the bottom of the stage, so sort of basically kind of looking up your skirt-I mean, not quite…they’re all sitting on the floor and you’re sitting in the front row above them so you’re, it is sort of slightly nerve-wracking.** -[Woman's Hour,](https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000rll9) 28th January 2021_

* * *

_Samantha: **Mine all came about a month-about or between two weeks and a month early, so I’ve never had that kind of endless bit so-**_

_Giovanna: **And did, did you have C-sections with all of them or-**_

_Samantha: **Yes, because Ivan, my first son, he was undiagnosed breech and so I went into hospital in labour, and I got told I had to have a C-section-and then, because he was very disabled, when I had my-not because of the birth or anything—when I was pregnant with my second child, my daughter, they-initially, I thought I would try and have her naturally because you can if you’ve had one C-section, they will let you try and have a natural birth the second time, but then, obviously, if, if you-you know, if you’re a parent of a disabled child and you know lots of parents of disabled children, a lot of the time, it can be from a birth issue, birthing issue, and so I just thought, well, why take that risk? I’ve had one C-section already, I might as well have another, and so all of them ended up being C-sections.**_

_Giovanna: **Yeah.**_

_Samantha: **But where I was quite lucky was the, because they all came early, I went into labour for all of them, so I don’t know what it’s like to have a C-section cold-I imagine that’s quite strange, that you go in for a C-section and you’re not in labour and you’re kind of cut open, whereas I was always, you know, having contractions, you know-**_

_Giovanna: **Well, did you have dates booked and then have to go, “Oooh-“**_

_Samantha: **I had dates booked but I never made it to the date!**_

_Giovanna: **…Why didn’t you-weren’t you caught short the fourth time round as well, weren’t you in Cornwall?**_

_Samantha: **Yes, we were in Cornwall, yup! Yup, yeah, she was a month-so the girls were both a month early and the boys were both two weeks early.** -[Happy Mum, Happy Baby](https://play.acast.com/s/happymumhappybaby/samanthacameron),1st September 2020_

_Samantha: **I think it’s easier if (in the workplace) you’re all parents, I always think it’s difficult, you know, when you work with a lot of people who aren’t parents or, the moment you-I remember thinking, you know, when I was working really hard in my twenties and I had a boss who had children and thinking “Oh God, you know, it’s, it’s-“-sort of-“It’s quite annoying-“-sometimes, you know-“Her with her children and she makes such a fuss about things-“-and then I remember, you know, when I had a child, thinking “Now, I understand,” and funnily enough, my assistant in Downing Street, Isabel, said the same thing to me when she had a baby, she was like, “When I was working for you in Downing Street, it was so frustrating at times, you know, the way you wanted to do things and the way you thought about things because you were a parent, and now I’ve had a baby, it all kind of-it—“-you know-“I’m, and now I understand what you were going through and why you made a fuss about this or that,” so I think it’s very easy for me to understand. I think it (lockdown working) must be quite weird for people who don’t have children suddenly dealing with people in Zoom meetings whose two-year-olds are trying to crawl onto their lap or whatever.-** Happy Mum, Happy Baby, 1st September 2020_

**_It’s huge (inside Downing Street) and our apartment was sort of one area-it’s this big apartment, it’s sort of like this enormous house within a house so it was sort of like we were in a huge flat-you know, much bigger than our house. The children’s bedrooms were sort of enormous…and they kept saying, “I just-I just want a tiny bedroom like all my friends have got! I don’t want this big bedroom!” I had to buy them all, like, double beds when they were tiny just to fill the room._ ** _ -Happy Mum, Happy Baby, 1st September 2020 _

_Giovanna: **Are there parts of your childhood that you really want to pass on to your children, that you really want to give them?**_

_Samantha: **Yes, that’s one of-that’s definitely one of my failing bits.**_

_Giovanna: **Oh, really?**_

_Samantha: **Yep. I mean-I was a massive bookworm, I read-from the age of seven-I didn’t read, learn to read very easily, and then when I did-I read, you know, books, kind-books and books and books and books-sometimes, like, twenty books a week, even if it was just like Enid Blytons or Agatha Christies or whatever-and none of my children will read books. So that-that-I’ve got three, and none of them-none of them really read, none of them are bookworms. Other people’s children are, so I feel like I’ve sort of failed in that respect because books, for me, were such a kind of window on the world.-** 1st September 2020_

_Giovanna: **And-and you met David really young.**_

_Samantha: **Yes, so I was-well, he was my best friend’s older brother-and so I probably met him first when I was about seventeen or eighteen. And then we got together on his dad’s, it was his dad’s sixtieth birthday and he took his children and they could all bring a friend, to a hotel in the south of Italy and that’s where, and that’s when Dave and I sort of got together. And we sort of knew each other a bit but he was always, you know, we were kind of naughty teenagers and he was already quite serious and had a job and, you know, a kind of serious girlfriend and so we always slightly took the piss out of him. He was sort of, you know, Clare’s square older brother and then, but then we sort of fell in love on this, on this holiday, and everyone was unbelievably surprised, I don’t think they’d ever thought-I was a bit of a hippy and, you know, I was a teenager, we knew virtually-a couple of months later, we were still together!....**_

_Giovanna: **And then here you are. You’ve been married for twenty-four years-or together for twenty-four years?**_

_Samantha: **Yeah, I can’t remember-we got married in ’96, I think? I think, yes, I think, next year’s my fiftieth birthday and our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary…I mean, I think partly also because I had, my youngest sibling, I think, is thirteen years younger than me. So in my twenties I still felt like a child, you know, you sort of slightly behave in your family like the kind of youngest-I mean, not in the workplace or whatever, but there’s an element that you still feel like a child because your youngest sibling is a child and so, you know, particularly when you’re home with your family, it’s a bit like the sort of lowest common denominator, you all start behaving like the youngest one in the most sort of pathetic, juvenile way.**_

_Giovanna: **Yeah.**_

_Samantha: **And so, of course, when I first met Dave, I, you know, the idea that I would be having children myself when I still, you know, felt like a child would be sort of absurd. Then I got really into my career, he’s, he’s about nearly five years older than me so his friends had started having babies, but it never really, although I knew I wanted to have a family, we were married for about four years before I had, three or four years before I got pregnant and together for quite a lot longer.-** Happy Mum, Happy Baby, 1st September 2020_

_Giovanna: **Did it help knowing that it was for, would likely be for a set amount of time as well, you knew it wasn’t gonna be, like, forever, it was gonna be-**_

_Samantha: **This kind of experience?**_

_Giovanna: **-a couple of years rather than a decade?**_

_Samantha: **Yes, and I think that’s what we always said to the children about everything, whether it was about-and I think it was hardest with Florence, the older two really understood that ‘cause they remembered being at home before, but for-Florence was born there, so-I think always explaining to them that this, this was home, but it wasn’t home forever. But, I mean, lots of children if they’re from a military family, or you know, for whatever reasons, move around a lot, it’s not, it’s not like that’s such a-home is where your parents are, it’s not, it’s not a building really, is it?**_

_Giovanna: **What about moving out (of Downing Street), though? Because that all happened so quickly-did you have, did they have the chance to sort of say goodbye-and you packed up the house when you-but how did you explain it to them?**_

_Samantha: **So our daughter was on a school trip in France, so that was quite weird. We knew at that stage that they were doing the Tory leadership election but we had thought we weren’t moving out until August, September time and this was, I suppose, in July. And so we only had two days warning for actually having to-I think we were, I think on the Monday we heard, and we moved out on the Wednesday. So we got Nance back from her school trip really quickly and, you know, I talked to the children, and the day before-or was it that morning? I can’t remember now-I just said, all I was going to do, I wasn’t gonna pack a box, I made the house look really nice and I put flowers everywhere and made it all look really tidy and perfect-and a friend of mine, who’s a photographer, who did photographs at our wedding, I rang him up and said “Olly, I know it’s weird-“-he lives in Dorset-“-can you, can you come up and take some photos of us here and with all the stuff-in Downing Street, so we can kind of remember it?” So I can’t remember whether it was the day before or the morning or the day-I can’t remember quite how the timing worked but I tried to make it a really sort of special time that wasn’t about moving, it was just about creating this really nice memory of our time there. And then the children left with Dave, out of the front door, in front of all the cameras, and then, you know, they never came back, you know, they don’t come back, so I could then sort of come in the back again and start packing frantically! But when you’ve seen it happen-I think if your, if your husband’s in politics, it’s brutal. You know it’s brutal, you know you’re-politics is brutal-from the first moment he went into politics, I’d always been very realistic about the things that can and would happen to us and, you know, you take a decision not to be, you know, upset by them or surprised by them, or, you know-I think you have to go into it with that attitude because if you don’t, I think it could be quite upsetting and traumatising.**_

_Giovanna: **Yeah. Yeah, I absolutely love the fact that you completely celebrated your time there. I think that’s so beautiful, as a family, rather than making it a sad thing that you’re moving, it’s like, “We had this amazing experience for six years, you know.”**_

_Samantha: **Yeah. Yeah, in this beautiful place-and the staff there were so lovely, and, you know, Florence had grown up with them. You become very close to them, you know, all the people working in the building, whether it’s, you know, the lovely ladies running the café downstairs or the security or the doors…there’s a little café right downstairs because it’s a big office, there’s probably a couple of hundred people working there in…in pretty kind of-not particularly nice offices, because it’s an old building and the air conditioning doesn’t really work and they’re all quite dusty and tarred, dingy…and so the kind of formal bits are very like (in Love Actually)…it is very like that, but also-so then there’s our flat and then the-our, we’re in the Number Eleven flat, the Number Ten flat upstairs where George-I mean, Osborne was-and there’s just lots of, there’s quite a lot of offices-and so there were particular people that Florence would go, from when she was a baby, would go round with our nanny, Gita, at the time, and sit on their desks and eat biscuits and their sweets and cuddle the cat-and, you know, she, to her-not so much for the older children, because they went to school every day and we didn’t really spend time there in the holidays and weekends, but for Florence, it was her kind of home and her family.—**Happy Mum, Happy Baby, 1st September 2020_

_Samantha: **You know, you can’t solve the problems anymore (when your children are older). It’s much more heartbreaking because when they were little, you could pick them up and stop them crying-stick a plaster on it-and when they get big, and their hearts are broken, or, you know, they’re depressed, or whatever it might be-you know, you can’t, you can’t solve those problems.**_

_Giovanna: **It must be really hard, because all you want to do is fix them.**_

_Samantha: **Yes, yes. No, and, I think that was what was really tough with Ivan, you know, the-it’s-I couldn’t fix him. You know, you’ve got this baby and, you know, with most other parents, you can, you can kind of fix or solve the problem, particularly when they’re little-you know, they need feeding or their nappy changing or, you know, whatever it is-and you just can’t, you know, fix the problem-and I think that’s just being a parent. And I think, actually, for my parents, when I had Ivan, I think that was incredibly hard. Because I think it was probably the first time in their parenting that something had happened to one of their children that-you know, was, was devastatingly hard-and they couldn’t solve that problem for me, either, you know, so I think it’s just ongoing…**_

_Giovanna: **It must be really hard, because for you, you’d be aware of that, as well, so the-I imagine, in that situation, it’s lots of people trying to do the right thing for everyone and everyone just being, everyone being at a loss. Not knowing how to make things better, you know, for want of a better word.**_

_Samantha: **Yep. No, it’s exactly like that. But I think the thing that it gives you is that you do-it-it’s just about getting through each day and enjoying all the kind of really, really-you really appreciate every moment that, that everything’s fine-you know-that everything’s fine. And I think it does give you that amazing sort of thing for the rest of your life, you know-being in, you know, tough situations where-the tiny glimmers of OKness become so sort of amazing-that, that, that-you know, everything is very much in perspective, you’re not spoilt, because-I mean, you really appreciate even the tiniest things.-**_ _Happy Mum, Happy Baby,_ _1st September 2020_

_Giovanna: **There’s a gorgeous photo of Ivan that’s come up time and time again whenever I’ve been researching you-which is the one of him smiling.**_

_Samantha: **Yes, and he didn’t smile, you know, a lot of the time, so that is a kind of amazing photo. You know, the love you feel for a child that is that helpless is sort of extraordinary-and it’s, you know, very different when you have a normal child, because he was my first child-when you have a normal child that can kind of do things for themselves, you know, it’s a very different experience.**_

_Giovanna: **How do you think Ivan has affected you as a mum?**_

_Samantha: **I think much less expectations, probably? Of course, it’s not that I don’t have expectations for my children, I do nag them when they don’t do their homework or this-but you’re not-I think, sometimes, people can have children, they want them to be perfect, you know? And-and I think that you just become very-kind of more accepting of just whatever is, is. You’re-you’re not looking for any kind of perfection anymore, you’re just so grateful for anything that’s just OK! You’re not expecting your children to be, you know, Wimbledon tennis stars or get into Oxford or-you’re just happy if they’re just-fine.**_

_Giovanna: **Fine is good, fine is perfect for you.**_

_Samantha: **Well-fine is good, fine is good, yep.-**_ _Happy Mum, Happy Baby,_ _1st September 2020_

* * *

_Every child is precious and irreplaceable, and the death of a child is an unbearable sorrow that no parent should have to endure. Politics can sometimes divide us, but there is a common human bond that unites us.- from Gordon Brown's tribute to Ivan Cameron, 25th February 2009_

_"God doesn't give people burdens they can't handle," Father Grady pointed out._

_That was all very well and good, but what had my baby done to piss Him off? Why would she have to prove herself by being hurt, before she even got here?_

_"I've always believed that He saves truly special babies for parents He trusts," Father Grady said._

_"My baby might die," I said flatly._

_"Your baby might not stay in this world," he corrected. "Instead, she'll get to be with Jesus."_

_I felt tears in my eyes. "Well, let Him have someone else's baby."..._

_There are legions of us, I realized. The mothers who have broken babies, and spend the rest of our lives wondering if we should have spared them. And the mothers who have let their broken babies go, who look at our children and see instead the faces of the ones they never met. -Handle With Care, Jodi Picoult_

_Don't get me wrong; I am not complaining. Other people look at me and think: **That poor woman; she has a child with a disability.** But all I see when I look at you is the girl who had memorized all the words to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" by the time she was three, the girl who crawls into bed with me whenever there's a thunderstorm-not because you're afraid but because **I** am, the girl whose laugh has always vibrated inside my own body like a tuning fork. I would never have wished for an able-bodied child, because that child would have been someone who wasn't you.-Handle With Care, Jodi Picoult_

_I wilted against the chair and pressed my fingers to my temples. "I can't," I whispered. I looked down at the grain of the wood on the railing before me. "I can't answer that question for you now, because now there **is** a Willow. A girl who likes pigtails but not braids, and who broke her femur this weekend, and who sleeps with a stuffed pig. A girl who's kept me awake at night for the past six and a half years wondering how to get through the next day without an emergency and planning, as a backup, how to go from crisis to crisis to crisis."..._

_Charlotte looked over at the jury. "I know what I look like to all of you. I know you think I'm in this for a big payday, that this is why I started this lawsuit."_

_I stilled, not sure what she was doing; this was not what we had practiced. "Charlotte, have you-"_

_"Please," she said. "Let me finish. It **is** about cost. But not the financial kind." She blinked back tears. "I don't sleep at night. I feel guilty when I laugh at a joke on TV. I watch little girls the same age as Willow at the playground, and I hate them sometimes-that's how bitterly jealous I can get when I see how easy it is for them. But the day I signed that DNR in the hospital, I made a promise to my daughter. I said, **If you fight, I will, too. If you live, I will make sure your life is the best it can possibly be.** That's what a good mother does, right?" She shook her head. "The way it usually works, the parent takes care of the child, until years later, when the roles are reversed. But with Willow and me, I'll always be the one taking care of her. That's why I'm here today. That's what I want you to tell me. How am I supposed to take care of my daughter after I'm gone?"_

_You could have heard a pin drop, a heart beat. "Your Honor," I said. "Nothing further."- Handle With Care, Jodi Picoult_

_Simon: There's lots of different scenarios. You know, like, on the playground or, um, just at home, sitting watching telly or, um, playing the iPad or something. Or there...there is one that I keep having-where she's going to a party, and I'm helping her get ready, and she's like, "No, Dad, get off, I can do it." (tearful) That's the thing, Em-she talks, she always talks in my dreams._

_ -There She Goes, s1p04: The Wrong Grandad _

_Ivan lies buried opposite the church in Chadlington. We take the children there, and tell him how things are going and how much we still miss him. Sam found an inscription from Wordsworth for the headstone that sums up so much of what we feel. **I loved the Boy with the utmost love of which my soul is capable, and he is taken from me-yet in the agony of my spirit in surrendering such a treasure I feel a thousand times richer than if I had never possessed it.** -For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

“I don’t care how long the bloody debate rehearsal takes,” Rupert says, leaning back into the car seat as they turn through the streets of Barnes, “as long as I never have to recite that bloody poem of Guy’s again.”

Kate rams the sharp point of her heel into his shin. Rupert shrieks, causing the driver to slam his hand across his chest, and shout something that would have made the headlines if it weren’t for the armoured casing around the car. “Ow-do not _assault_ me-“

“Blame Olivia” Kate retorts, “She’s the one who picked the bloody things out. And you’re lucky Guy was out of the car.”

“It’s not as though you don’t have form” Rupert retorts, rubbing his shin with the air of a man who has sustained a far worse injury than a heel to the leg. “I still haven’t recovered from that bloody reshuffle where you tried to get us to reconsider because the guy we were moving happened to be Guy’s friend’s _dad.”_

“Maybe if George didn’t ram his nose so much into reshuffles it wouldn’t have happened.”

Rupert arches an eyebrow. “Would you rather he had Thea in there?”

Kate rolls her eyes, as does Rupert. “Wonder if Bill will let her in there when we’re rehearsing.”

“I hope he bans her” Rupert mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose as he pores over his notes. “I, for one, want to see her throw another shoe.”

Kate laughs but gives him a sympathetic look. Rupert’s still scrutinising his notes, but he’s got the same crease between his eyes he always gets these days when Thea is mentioned.

“Are you sure he’ll make her his chief of staff when you go?” she asks, searching for a chink of a possibility that that might not be the case.

Rupert grimaces. Kate sighs, slumps onto his arm. “You’re abandoning us” she implores. “Please. Please don’t take three hundred million billion from BlackRock and leave us with the Thea-Devil.”

Rupert laughs. “That’s-that’s actually good. I’d suggest it to Bill, but she’ll probably be in the room.”

Kate rolls her eyes, only half-joking. Sitting up straight, she gives Rupert a sidelong glance. “Did you-does George know why you’re leaving?”

The words hang in the air between them.

Rupert returns the sidelong glance. “I haven’t-told him directly” he says. “All of it. But-I’m going to.”

Kate holds his gaze for a moment before saying, “I hope Ameet’s there.”

Rupert snorts. “Because what we need is to make the situation more awkward.”

“But beautifully so” Kate tells him, as she checks her make-up in the mirror one last time. “Beautifully so.”

Rupert grins. “Poor Trout Lips.”

Kate hits his arm. _“Sexist.”_ But she grins.

Rupert leans back against the seat. “As it is, we’ve got to get the girls in. To play-“

“Leanne, Natalie, Nicola. So three. Laura’s already said she’ll do Leanne.”

“Who’s doing Ni-Olive-“

“Olive.” They both say it at once.

“That was cruel” Rupert concedes. “You know it’s going to leak, and that’s the first thing his prospective constituents will ever see of him.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kate checks her lipstick one more time, before snapping the mirror shut. “It could work for him. We don’t know if any of them are going to turn out to be secret Eurosceptics who hate women breastfeeding in public.”

“I take it Thea is not playing anyone?”

“Nope. And neither am I. You’ll have to manage Miliband on your own.” Kate tucks her hair behind her ears. “We’ve got Laura, probably Meg and if she can’t do it, I’ll get the other Kate.”

“Dave’s going to have his head bitten off” Rupert muses.

“And then we’ll sew it back on” Kate tells him calmly. “That’s the benefit of being surrounded by women. We’ll rip his head off, then sew it back on just so we can rip it off again.”

“Beautiful.”

“You know it is. Dave has me-“ Kate ticks them off on her fingers. “Gabby, other Kate, other Kate, Liz-“

“Never forget Liz.”

“-Lara, Clare-he’s talking about hiring Jess when Clare goes-“

“The Manchester, I remember-*“

“Laura, third Kate-“

“Why are you all called Kate, were parents equipped with a shortage of imagination in the ‘50s-“

Kate squawks and hits his arm indignantly. “Simone, Georgie-and Isabel. Can’t forget Bells.”

“No one could” Rupert observes. “She wouldn’t let them.”

There’s a moment of silence before Rupert elbows her very slightly. “I notice you didn’t include Thea in your list.”

“Didn’t I?” Kate gives him an angelic smile. “Oops.”

* * *

“Crisps?” David says slowly, disbelievingly. “We’re offering crisps?”

Danny snorts, then covers the sound up with an unconvincing cough.

“I’m serious” Nick says weakly, then makes the audible version of a grimace. David can picture his expression.

“If you’ve done your back that badly, you shouldn’t be bloody exercising.”

“You shouldn’t _be_ doing your back in exercising” Danny manages, through what sounds suspiciously like laughter. “How in God’s name do you rip your muscles just bending forward?”

“Next, you’ll be doing it blowing out a cupcake.”

“Images, Tim.”

“Never mind my bloody back” says Nick, with a slight edge to his tone-David guesses that it’s because Tim’s chimed in. “We’re getting them from Henderson’s, they’re based up in Sheffield.”

“What from Henderson’s, your back?”

David guesses that if looks could kill through a phone, Danny would be a dead man.

“The crisps” he says again, with a slight, dangerous emphasis on the last word. “They’re specially-made.”

“Isn’t Cameron getting the beer from his constituency?” David wonders out loud, only for the voice of Alistair, who’s only just apparently caught up with the conversation, to crash across his with the exclamation, _“Crisps?”_

“Yes, crisps, bloody _crisps_ , how many times do I have to-fucking say it-“

“Bloody hell.” Alistair snorts down the phone. “The Tories are offering us champagne from on high and we’re chucking them a couple of packets of Walkers’?”

“Preparation for negotiations” David offers, which dredges a sound of something resembling a laugh from Nick.

_“Osborne’s the one to watch” David cautions Nick, adjusting his tie as they wait to walk across. The cameras have gathered outside already, and they’re all too aware that once they’re outside, there’s no going back._

_“Tried to get you across the floor once, didn’t he?” Nick’s tapping his fingers, usual lack of nicotine nervousness amplified tenfold. It means he misses the rise of colour in David’s cheeks._

_“You could say that.”_

“Cameron’s got it from a brewery in his constituency” Nick volunteers tiredly to David. “Custom-made.”

“Don’t they have anything better in your constituency, Clegg, you bloody cheapskate?”

“They’re not _Walkers”_ Nick says, an injured tone creeping into his voice at this slur on his culinary offering. “They’re from Henderson’s. And they’re custom-made too.”

“Someone’s actually designed coalition-themed food?” David says slowly.

“Yep. In fact, two people. Or rather, two organisations, which means in fact, multiple people.”

“Have they christened the beer?” Danny asks, sounding suspiciously like someone who’s trying not to laugh.

Nick sighs. “Yep. Co-Ale-Ition.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tim says, “You’re joking.”

“No. That’s what’s on the bottle.”

“That’s bad” David says quietly. “That’s-“

“Osborne _has_ to have had a hand in that name.”

“No” David argues, more confidently, here, leaning on a five-bar fence and exchanging smiles with a mildly curious passing cow. “No way would Osborne ever have let him come up with that.”

“We’ve not named the bloody crisps anything, have we?”

There’s a silence.

“Oh, dear fucking God.” Nick can picture Alistair leaning his head against the phone, as much as he can picture Tim’s wince. “What the hell have we christened them?”

“It’s not that bad.” The defensive tone in Nick’s voice tells David that it is indeed very much that bad. “And I didn’t bloody name them.”

“Jesus. What is it?”

“I didn’t-“

“What is it?”

There’s a resigned silence, before Nick sighs and says, “Coalition Crunch.”

There’s a moment of baleful processing, before the phone line erupts with laughter so loud that David nearly drops his mobile in the grass, rubbing his ear and bitterly regretting choosing to stop to take a conference call in Farnham.

* * *

_“You don’t have to leave” Cameron had been telling him while Ed grabbed at his suit and put his arm through the wrong sleeve, shaking so hard he nearly dropped it to the floor and had to start all over again. “You can-“_

_Ed hadn’t meant to say anything but he’d heard a strange, ragged sound, one that made Cameron step back, and it had taken him a moment to realise it came from his own throat._

“Ed?” Tom nudges him. “We’re still OK for outside the kids’ school tomorrow?”

Ed’s head jerks slightly. He shakes it. Counts quickly, puts Cameron out of his mind. The way they’ve decided to do.

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, we’ve cleared it with the school, we’re just-as long as we don’t show any of the other kids-“

_“Ed-“_ _and Cameron’s hand had been warm on his arm and Ed had ripped it away, the warmth soaking into the depths of his stomach like a sickness._

“OK. So if we get that done tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be able to see it before it goes out Wednesday morning-“

Ed only lets himself stare into space for a moment before he drags his attention back to the conversation. So that’s OK.

* * *

“Right. So-“ David glances around, up at Ed L, and then at George, who’s lounging in a chair next to him, sliding his fingers in and out of one another lazily. Thea, who’s joined them for this meeting, is eyeing him from behind-David can tell George has noticed and is enjoying ignoring her.

He glances up at Nick and Danny-Danny, too, glances at Thea, and for a moment, he and David almost share a roll of the eyes at the wall of indifference her gaze is meeting.

“That-“ David can’t help but smile slightly. “Is our last-“

“Bilateral.”

It’s Nick who says it, and the word shatters in the air a little. Danny laughs, a little too loudly, relief breaking in the air, and David shrugs slightly. “Well, yes.”

“Just in time” George chips in, lip curling slightly. “We need to rehearse your ejection from

government.”

There isn’t a pause before they laugh, but it’s a little too loud, once again.

David shakes Danny’s hand first-they’re just the first who reach out, and then George claps Danny on the shoulder, shaking his hand more vigorously. David and Nick eye each other for a long moment, over George and Danny’s shoulders.

“Do you want to-“ he says, to Nick, and then Nick glances at George, then back at David, and said “Yeah, do you-do you want to-“

George, glancing between them, eyes lingering on David, takes the unspoken signal, clapping Danny on the shoulder again. “Come on. Let’s go and-“

“Yeah, yeah-“

Thea leans forward, hand touching George’s elbow. George lets her for a few moments, not looking at her, but turned slightly towards her.

“Do you want-you know, when you’re doing the rehearsals later, do you need me to-“

George gives her a flash of a smile for less than a second, lets his hand brush hers’ for a moment. Thea’s eyes brighten, even as Danny’s saying to Nick-“We’ll let you two-“

“Yeah-“ and then George turns back to Danny, shaking Thea’s hand off with a slight flick of the head, the way one would an irksome fly. David knows he should wince, but something about the sheer predictability of the sight is horribly amusing.

“Well-“ Nick turns back to him, with that same smile he’d given David five years earlier, in at the House Of Commons, both of them sharing that same wired bounce that comes with too little sleep, too much coffee, too many days waiting.

“Oh, and I won’t need you later, Thea” George says, the words tossed casually over his shoulder as he follows Danny out of the office. “You don’t need to bother about it.”

Thea’s face falls for barely a second, and George’s mouth twitches into a blade of a smirk, that, for even less than that, shines with an inch of cruelty. David rolls his eyes, as Thea follows her boss out, a few steps behind the two men, neither of them turning back to her.

Then the door shuts behind them, and he and Nick are alone.

* * *

David spreads his hands slightly. Nick manages a laugh, a little higher and tighter than usual. “Well-“

David laughs, bending forward slightly, as though tugging his laughter from the bottom of his chest. Nick’s familiar with the sight, after five years-knows without needing to wonder how that David’s slightly nervous, and not really aware that he’s nervous.

“We can-er-I think this, this brings back memories-“ David gestures to the chairs, facing each other, and Nick smiles, remembering the thud of the door behind them, what could almost have been a full stop if it weren’t for the circumstances.

_“You know, there aren’t a million miles between us at all,” Cameron-David, Nick had had to remind himself, it wasn’t the debates anymore-had said, leaning forward slightly. “We’ve got our guys in the talks, we know what we agree on. There’s really nothing to stop us doing this. We know we can work together.”_

_They did, Nick knew that already. He could work with Cameron. He could, even if his party couldn’t, but he could, and that was what counted._

_“If we did this,” David had persisted, leaning across, hand falling an inch from Nick’s, fingers tugging at his sleeve just slightly, just enough to drag Nick’s gaze up. “It would be something unprecedented. We could change the way politics is done here. It was what your campaign was all about,” and even though Nick had already been looking up, that was what had kept him from looking away._

_“Unprecedented,” he’d said slowly. “An unprecedented alliance.”_

_Cameron-David had smiled. A different smile from the one he wore for TV debates, for speeches, for press conferences. An open smile. An open, comprehensive offer._

_“We could,” Nick had said, slowly, the air humming with the unspoken nature of what would come next. “We could.”_

* * *

“You know, we’ve actually-I was digging through our list of priorities that we drew up at the start-“

“Did we tick them all off?” David slides off his desk with only marginal less ease than he could five years ago.

“Well-I think we managed-electoral reform is still on the list-“

David laughs, a little too loudly. Nick does too, to show there are no hard feelings. Even though there are. Especially if there are.

“We’ll have to-“ David’s eyes meet his own, the same bright blue as five years ago, when his hand had brushed Nick’s elbow as they’d walked out to the rose garden, the sunlight slanting into their eyes, lecterns standing side by side. “We’ll have to leave that for our next coalition.”

_“Secondly-“ Andy’s voice held a pinch of mischief that should have been a warning. “Do you now regret, when once asked what your favourite joke was, you replied, “Nick Clegg”?”_

_A ripple of laughter had spread out amongst the waiting journalists, and Nick had felt his own mouth pucker in a grin as he swallowed, turning to David. “Did you say that?”_

_“Listen, we’re all going to have-“ David had already been laughing, with that ease that had braided itself into their first conversation, that had let him stand in front of the Downing Street door and announce that they had harder times ahead with a smile. “Er-I’m afraid I, I did once-“_

_“Oh, right-“_

_“I’m-er-“_

_Their voices had bounced off each other, each word rolling into the next without them needing to try. The wells of laughter now rising up from the reporters, appreciative of the performance, had lightened Nick’s shoulders, the energy from their audience fuelling the repartee._

_“Oh-“ He’d given David a tut on instinct, the grimace in return just increasing the laughter._

_“I’m off, I’m off-“_

_He’d half-walked off on instinct, still high on the laughter of the crowd, who were letting themselves forget for once that they were there to interrogate them, still wired from the exhilaration of several days without enough sleep and full of too much detail, the sheer unprecedented newness of it all still shiny in his hands, the wrapping paper only half-torn-off._

_“Come back-“_

_The words had been half-laughed into the air, the unrehearsed nature of them shining through even the usual polish of David’s tone. But even as he walked back to his podium,_

_joining David in the small pantomime, mock-indulging this transgression, that same nature-the unrehearsed, improvised feel to this press conference, the sense of the world having thrown sleep to the wayside for the past four days in favour of watching, the bizarre urge to laugh seizing his chest-had seemed to make the air ring with possibility._

* * *

“Look-“ Nick holds up his hands. “However this plays out, we have to think about what the logical outcomes of this are likely to be.”

“I agree-“ David’s already nodding. “I agree, we’re-we know this is-it’s likely, it’s not certain but likely, to result in a hung parliament, even if it’s closer this time.”

“That’s right.”

David meets Nick’s gaze head-on. “You know I’m going to ask you if you’re going to go with Ed.”

Nick returns the gaze. “And you know that I can’t answer that.”

“I know.” David doesn’t look away. “But if I had to guess, I know what I’d say.”

Nick raises his eyebrow. “That’s very confident.”

They watch each other for a few moments, eyes roving over each other’s faces.

_One of the leaflets had slid down the table, the corner of it grazing David’s wrist. “I want to know if you disassociate yourself from these leaflets smearing Nick-“_

_“Chris-“ Nick’s voice was tired, like someone trying to get out of bed and already knowing they won’t do it._

_Chris’s hand thumped onto the table. David had glimpsed the slight curl of George’s lip to his left, the slight travel of his eyebrow. “If this was Gilbert, you should be firing him.” David glimpses Sayeeda’s slight wince down the other end of the table, and the sight sends something hot and angry curling up his spine. “If this was-everyone knows Gilbert’s been working on this campaign, and if he’s been-he is sanctioned by you and **your team-“**_

_“I am not responsible for the all-party literature produced by the No campaign.” David’s voice had been harder, calmer, aware of the slow tilt of George’s smirk next to him, more dangerous than a frown._

_“Oh, for God’s sake-“_

_“You’ve got to understand-“ Danny had spread his hands, time-honoured position of the peacemaker. “This has been exceptionally difficult for the Lib Dems-“_

**_“You’ve_ ** _been sanctioning the fucking media-“ This time Chris was turning to George, shoving several more of the leaflets towards him, several of them spilling across the table, one of them landing in George’s lap, where it falls to the floor, George barely glancing at it. “Did you know about this, did you-when you were directing this-“_

_“Chris.” George had held his hands up, his smile not hiding the arch of the eyebrow. “We always knew-this was always going to be a difficult period for the coalition-“_

_“That’s not what I asked.” Chris’s hand had hit the table again-too many times, David’s brain had supplied. Enjoying it a little too much. “I asked you if you knew about it.”_

_“We know this is difficult for you-“_

**_“Did you know these leaflets were going to be produced?”_ **

_The words had reverberated around the room, the sound hovering in the air. David had watched Michael lean forward slightly, his gaze sharpening, keener as his eyes moved between George and Chris._

_George, who had been leaning back on his chair, stilled for a second, and then, slowly, let himself fall forward, the four legs hitting the carpet a little too hard. His head tilted back, his eyes travelling over Chris slowly, up and down, the speed adding no small measure of derision, the curl in his voice a sneer of its’ own. “I am not going to be challenged by a Cabinet colleague acting like he is Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight.”_

_The heads jerked up around the table, eyes darting back and forth, the entire table a slow indrawn gasp. David’s gaze had met Michael’s for a moment, the other man’s eyebrow arching questioningly, before they both turned as one to take in George and Chris, one’s eyes blazing, the other cool, detached, over a curl threatening to become a grin, the silence between them pulled taut over the explosion about to break._

* * *

“You’ll have George on your team, of course?” Nick says, conversationally, after a few seconds.

“Of course.” David smiles. “We know he’s who your lot dread most.”

“And yet he probably has more in common with us than the rest of you” Nick returns, though he knows on many levels that’s not true. Oh, George can have things in common with the Lib Dems-many of his social policies, certainly-but when it suits him. When it suits him.

“What about yours’?” David asks, sitting on the edge of his armchair now. “Danny, of course?”

“You can probably guess.” Nick gives him a smile, though he knows that David will see through that in an instant. They’ve worked together for five years, after all. Five years longer than either of them probably thought, at times.

“They know each other well enough” David says, almost musingly.

“To know each other’s weaknesses?” Nick asks, possibly teasingly. Then again, possibly not.

“Maybe” David says with a smile, and then, without needing to say anything more, they both decide to leave it at that.

_“This is the thing.” Nick circled his thumbs into his temples slowly, the sure signs of a headache building. “Osborne knows full fucking well this could do for me in my constituency.”_

_He’d looked up at Danny, who’d had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Osborne knows this is what I’ll be remembered for. That and fucking tuition fees. This is another piece of-of fucking Osborne mischief.”_

_“We did-“ Danny said it slowly, testing the words out in his mouth. “We did get it sorted.”_

_Nick had closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again to look at Danny. “Yeah,” he said, without looking away. “Once Osborne decided to let us.”_

_Danny’s eyes met his behind his glasses, darted away, and then back._

_“You know, he doesn’t pretend,” and Nick had pushed away the feeling that he was being merciless, unforgiving. “He doesn’t pretend, Osborne. He doesn’t pretend to care.”_

_Danny had said nothing, and Nick hadn’t known whether he agreed with him or not, or which was worse._

* * *

“Seriously.” David looks him in the eyes, then, and Nick knows him well enough to know that he’s being genuine. “We’ve made this coalition work. I’ve admired you through it.” The slightly stilted note in his voice tells Nick he’s rehearsed this. Once, it would have made it ring false to him. Now, he knows David well enough for it not to be the case.

“I know.” He can be sincere, too. “And you can be proud of leading it. We’ve made it work. A lot of people said it would fail.”

_“If I go now-“ Nick said, head leant on his hand. “We’d need a new leader in place-new leader, new direction, new, new-“_

_“In twelve months, yeah.”_

_Nick had stared past his desk into nothing. “We can’t do it,” he’d said, knowing that he was answering a question that hadn’t needed to be asked. “It would-it would finish us off.”_

_Tim had been quiet on the other end of the phone. So had Danny, which was less reassuring._

_“What does Miriam say?” Danny had asked, finally, both of them knowing it wouldn’t make any difference._

_Nick had sighed. “Miriam will-she’ll, she’ll be with me, no matter what.”_

_Another long silence._

_“It’s twelve months,” Danny had said, slowly._

_David had spoken, almost over him. “We really don’t have enough time.”_

_Nick had nodded. Bitten his thumbnail. And wondered if he wished they did or not._

David meets his gaze again. “You know there’s a good chance that there won’t be a definitive result.”

Nick nods. “And we’ll look at all the options if that happens.”

David looks at him for a moment. And then jerks his chin in a quick nod.

They both know they’re looking at another coalition.

_“This is going to be a real problem.” Nick had glanced at David and Danny, from one to the other. “This is going to be a real problem-going for another coalition with the Conservatives.”_

_“But we can’t-“ David didn’t need to look at Danny for confirmation on this. “I mean, after everything with-I don’t think going with Miliband was ever a serious possibility anyway, but after Syria-“_

_“No.” Nick’s voice was firmer now. “I can’t-we’re not going with Miliband. I can’t take us into a coalition with Miliband. I just can’t see-“ He’d lifted his shoulders in a shrug punctuated with a sigh. “I don’t know if I can see-myself taking us into another coalition with the Conservatives.”_

_“You don’t know if you can see-“ Danny had said the next word carefully, deliberately. “Yourself-or-us in a coalition with them again?”_

_Nick had tilted his head back against the chair. “I don’t know. I don’t-this is not the same party that we entered government with, that we-agreed to enter government with-“_

_“But if we say no-“ Danny says slowly. “We might be forgoing the chance to make-any kind of difference in government again.”_

_David’s gaze flickers to Nick quickly, under his eyelashes, and neither of them need to ask if for all three of them it’ll be we._

_“And,” David points out, more quietly. “We might be leaving the country at a stalemate. But we need to-“ He’d pressed his thumb into his temple. “We need to try and-if there’s another coalition, that’s another five years. That’s ten years, that’s a decade, what we need to-we need to be focusing on-is that what we want the ten years of our lives in politics to, to be for?”_

_Nick stared at his desk, the lamplight casting the shadows under his eyes into deeper circles. He’d sat there quietly, thinking of the sunlight warming his head and the wood under his hands, the scent of roses heavier on the air than he’d thought. The echo of the words, too loud, what he’d needed to hear, but needing not being wanting. The press of a car seat against your cheek, your legs too long for the floor, bulletproof windows and doors a thin shield against the wave of noise rising louder and louder, no match for the propulsion on the tide of rage._

_“And that’s it,” he’d said, softly, agreeing perhaps, but with a note that rang through the words of something far more final._

“But-“ David takes in a breath, looks Nick straight in the eye. “I mean it. It’s been-if we need to work together again-“

Nick almost looks away, but makes himself meet his gaze.

They each wait for the other to say more, but then Nick just nods.

“I know” he says, and no more needs to be said.

* * *

“I can assure you all” Craig informs them drily, from where he’s perched himself on a table at the side of the room to watch the scene unfolding before him. “The police are on their way.”

Nicola Sturgeon pulls off her wig and throws it at him.

“Ow! That’s not very ladylike-“

“Excuse me.” Leanne Wood points at him, flicking her hair. “That is a pejorative term.”

“How in the name of all that is holy is that a _pejorative term_ , it’s literally a compliment-“

“It’s betraying the clear inherent male superiority complex that is _characterised_ by this government-“ Nicola’s dramatic pointing of the finger is ruined by her wig once again hitting her in the face.

“Oh, put a wig on” says Nigel Farage, leaning on his lectern.

_“Sexism-“_ Natalie Bennett shrieks across the room, causing Leanne Wood to nearly jump out of her skin, grab her lectern for support, and nearly knock it over.

“Jesus Christ, Meg, you nearly blew out my fucking _eardrum-“_ Craig clutches his ear, grabs at Kate’s arm for support. “I need a hospital. I think they burst something-“

David, taking in the devastation around him, turns slowly to look at George, who offers an attempt at a winning smile in return.

“Don’t” David warns him, before George can speak.

George mimes pulling a zipper across his mouth, blinking innocently.

David turns back to the various assembled party leaders, one of whom is now dusting off her wig with an aggrieved air.

“For God’s sake, Andrew, Sturgeon isn’t going to throw her hair at him.”

“If I’m playing a woman, this is one of the few pluses I’m getting.” Andrew brandishes the wig again menacingly.

“Take that back” Kate demands. “Or lose the wig.”

“I thought I was acknowledging my inherent male privilege?”

“I find it harder to believe you’ve never worn a woman’s wig.”

Craig raises an eyebrow, gaze falling on George. “From you? Really?”

George raises his own eyebrows, which may be conceding the point.

“Right.” Rupert marches into the room, with an air of one who’s satisfied that he’s finally come to the right conclusion. “We’re ready.” He falters as his gaze falls upon the scene before him, one lectern lying across the carpet, George and Craig now engaged in an intense staring match, Kate with her head in her hands, and, finally, Andrew’s wig sailing gently across the room to land on Olive’s shoulder.

* * *

“Right.” Bill claps his hands. “If we’re all settled-“

“Thank God Lynton didn’t see this” Kate says, in an undertone, to David. “He’d have burst his last capillary.”

“Mmm” George remarks, tossing a Haribo sweet into the air and neatly catching it in his mouth. “I almost wish he was here.”

David snatches the next sweet from him. George pouts and smacks the back of his hand.

“I know certain people are reprising their roles from last time-“

“Too true” Olive mutters, fervently. “I’ve had Farage’s voice barking in my head since bloody Tuesday.”

“Just open yourself up to the gentle indifference of the world” George advises him.

“Shut up” says Bill, without looking at him. “One more Camus quote and I’ll ask you to leave.”

George contents himself with a long stare and shoves several jelly fried eggs in his mouth.

“And Jeremy, you helped us prepare for Nick last time-“

“Yeah, but this time he doesn’t have to worry about triggering Cleggmania” Craig mutters, clapping Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy smiles, slightly wanly, and David manages, just, not to wince.

* * *

“The fact is, the Liberal Democrats always have tried to be the brakes on this coalition-“

“You know, Nick, it’s interesting that the person who served as Deputy Prime Minister in this coalition, who wanted this coalition, who was negotiating with two different leaders to _form_ a coalition-“

A sweet hits David in the cheek.

“George, if you throw one more fucking sweet, I’ll choke you with them.”

“I was aiming at Nick.”

Jeremy, as the Nick whom George is currently referring to, opens his mouth and promptly a sweet flies into it.

“Jesus, George!”

“Sorry-“ George holds up a hand, struggling to contain his laughter. _“That_ was an accident-“

“For God’s _sake-“_ Bill leans his head on his hand.

“I did say” George points out, fairly, “that we should start rehearsing weeks ago.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“Well, I did say.”

“Yes, you said, you’ve said that you said, and now you’re saying that you said that you said.”

George grins. “Well, I said.”

“As I was saying-“ Jeremy holds up his hand, having survived his near-death encounter with the sweet. “And do not interrupt me again-“

_“Sexism-“_ declares Laura, pointing at Jeremy with a gasp dramatic enough to disgrace Brian Blessed.

Andrew places his hand very solemnly over his heart. “Please take this thug off the streets.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, do you _mind_ getting on with it?” George leans back in his chair, examining his fingernails. “I’ve got to be at Liberty’s Celebration of Sport thing in two hours, and she isn’t even bloody getting anything.”

“Not just you” Kate reminds him, nudging him in the leg. “I’ve been to these things every year for Olivia, and she doesn’t even do any of the sports.”

“And it’s the Greek Play on Wednesday” George reminds her. “And the bloody Film Week thing on Friday.”

“The pains of sending your child to a fee-paying school” David says, completely straight-faced, and gets two cushions thrown at his head for his troubles.

“Isn’t Liberty in the Greek Play?” he asks a second later, having thrown two cushions back, while Jeremy swings himself into the chair and sips from a bottle of water.

“Yep.” George pops another sweet in his mouth. “Doing a dance.”

David eyes him as he lifts a sweet of his own. “Is Frances going?”

George only pauses for the slightest second. “Yeah” he says, looking David straight in the eye, before he crams another handful of sweets past his lips, mouth so full of chewing artificial sweetness that he can’t say anything else.

* * *

“So we’re still not talking, then?” Alastair asks after ten minutes of him and Fiona sitting in silence side by side on the sofa, watching the headlines play across the TV in near-silence, the newscaster’s voice only a dull murmur in the room.

Fiona raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. They can’t have spent thirty years living under the same roof to be able to go without talking for three weeks. But it’s whether they’ve said what they want to say.

She’s silent for another moment. Alastair goes back to staring at the TV.

Then Fiona says, quietly, “I’ve always known you’d never hurt them.”

Alastair looks at her.

“The kids. I’ve always known you’d never hurt them. Or me. Not….deliberately, anyway, not like that. But when it first happened, back when Rory was a baby, and he was so little-I used to wonder.”

Alastair’s fingers tap on the arm of the sofa.

“If it would.” Fiona turns back to the TV, her arms folding slightly more tightly across her chest. “If it would ever-happen to you again. You hear stories, all the time, about people who never saw something coming.”

Alastair’s still, waiting.

“But you never did” Fiona says, slowly. “And I always-let myself know then-I already believed it, but then I, I really let myself know it-that you never would.”

She looks up at him then, both of them watching each other, the way they have so many times in the wake of one of these storms, when the rain still lingers, clinging in the air.

“And when that happened with Grace-“ Fiona shakes her head. “That brought it back. That time when I wondered if I could let myself know that. When I wondered if I was letting us down if I let myself know that.”

Alastair’s heart’s beating fast.

Fiona moves into his side then, nestles into his shoulder. “I need that not to happen again” she whispers. “I need you to go and see David if it’s going to happen again. I can’t let that happen to us again.”

Alastair hugs her, burying his mouth in her hair, and lets her ignore the fact that where she meant to say _you_ , she somehow said _us._

* * *

_“Saturday morning in the Cotswolds-“_

“We’re kicking off-“ Alastair rubs his hands together, leaning forward. Several miles away, Rachel wriggles forward on the edge of the sofa, fingers pursed together, and Ed swallows hard and looks out of the window.

_“-and Chadlington Under-9s are taking on_ _Croughton Colts-“_

“Did you ever do this?” James asks, taking David’s hand as he sits down next to him on the sofa.

“What, this?” David glances at the screen, kissing James’ fingers idly as he does so. “No, I think I usually-fell over-“

_“And on the touchline-a rather enthusiastic parent.”_

“Oh, fucking _great.”_

“Alastair-“

“What? It’s about as wholesome as a fucking Norman Rockwell painting-“

* * *

Justine’s hand covers his. Ed tries not to pull away.

“It’s fine,” she says, with a too-bright smile. Before, Ed would have stretched his mouth to meet it with one of his own. Now, something in him makes him look away.

“Yeah.”

“It’s good, but that-that’s not what it will be based on.”

Ed’s eyes dart back to the screen, almost reluctantly. Cameron’s eyes are fixed on the football pitch, his cheeks flushed. Ed’s eyes linger on the touch of grey at his temples, the softness of his cheeks. It should make him less attractive. He’s sure on anyone else it would.

“Come on, Elwen, get in the middle-“

_“Ed.” Cameron’s voice is a breathy groan into his neck, his hand pressed into Ed’s back. “Jesus, Ed-“_

_Ed had turned his face, to say something, anything, and Cameron’s mouth had captured his own, warm and wet and something so horribly close to loving that Ed had shuddered against him, once, and then again._

_“Ed.” David’s voice had been a moan and a sound had gasped out of Ed’s throat in response, his hand clutching at Cameron’s hair, their tongues dancing across one another, making him gasp._

* * *

_“Just a short drive away, through the rolling Oxfordshire hills-“_

“Oh, fuck this, this is like the nightmare I had about being on fucking _Countryfile.”_

_“-lies the Camerons’ constituency home.”_

“Alastair, they showed a single shot of a field.”

“You know fucking well what they’re-“

_“Here, he’s the family’s chief cook.”_

“Oh, _fuck me_ , they’re going to show the whole bloody kitchen, with the stupid-“

“Well, it’s fair ground now, isn’t it, they’re going to-“

“Yeah, but you know-Jesus, it’s fucking Landale, he’s a fucking Old Etonian, they’re practically swimming in-Agas and stainless steel and American fucking refrigerators-“ Alastair glowers at the pleasant-looking country kitchen on screen as though its’ mere existence causes him great personal distress. “That’s it, I’m fucking-fucking turn it over, I can’t watch this, I’m going to vomit-“

Fiona reaches for the control.

_“But, in a striking admission that will shape the election campaign-“_

Alastair lunges across the sofa with the air of someone who’s spotted a toddler wandering happily towards a road and seizes the control, nearly knocking Fiona’s tea everywhere.

_“Jesus_ , Alastair-“

“Shut up.”

_-“-that he had a sell-by date.”_

“I didn’t fucking hear it!”

“I wish I hadn’t,” mutters Fiona, nursing her eardrum. “I wish I’d never sat down next to you to watch the stupid thing.”

* * *

_“-in a striking admission that will shape the election campaign-“_

“What’s-“

“Hang on-“ Ed holds up his hand, over the sudden drumbeat of his heart. “Hang on, this-this-“

His mouth is suddenly intensely dry. His palms press nervously at the knees of his jeans. His cheeks are burning.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t be fucking stupid.

Oh God. Oh God-

_“-he told me-and the country-“_

Ed’s stomach contracts.

_“-that he has a sell-by date.”_

Everything in Ed’s body goes limp. If he’d been standing up, his knees would have turned to water. He almost slumps forward for a few moments before the last few words register dully, and then, slowly, he lifts his head. “Wait, what?”

* * *

“Sorry, what?” David glances at James. “Did he just tell us he’s _going?”_

“I mean, he was talking about Shredded Wheat” James says, helpfully, munching a mouthful of popcorn. “Could be he just took his 1980s breakfast cereals seriously.”

“That’s not funny.” David gives him a stern look. “You know how I feel about Rice Krispies.”

James grins. “Snap, crackle and pop.”

“I had an aversion to excessive uses of onomatopoeia.”

James grins, rolls another piece of popcorn around his mouth. “Pop.”

“This isn’t funny.” David turns back to the screen, trying valiantly to ignore his boyfriend now crunching another mouthful of popcorn as loudly as possible. “This isn’t fucking funny, Nick wanted me to watch this and now I’ve got to tell him Cameron just announced his fucking resignation on the evening news.”

“There aren’t many better places to announce it, to be fair,” James points out. “And it’s hardly a resignation. It’s a sell-by date.”

“Since when in the name of God did the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom have a sell-by date, James, he’s not a bag of flour, he doesn’t come with a pancake recipe on his back-“

“No, that’s Nick.” James gives him a cheeky grin. “Flat and on the side- _ouch.”_

David scrabbles for the bag of popcorn that’s just landed on James’ head and pushes his own hand into the bag, giving his boyfriend an unashamed smirk as he does so.

* * *

“So has he just said-he’s-what are we meant to do with that?”

“It’s good.” Ed can tell it’s good just from the tightness of Rachel’s voice, the way she’s tautening the words over her own excitement. “It’s good, we can use it-say it shows arrogance, overconfidence-we don’t want to overplay it because it could play into complacency with the public, but it’s _good,_ Ed.”

Ed nods, but he’s only half-listening. His eyes have roamed back to the TV screen, where Cameron and James are still talking, Cameron with one hand in his pocket with an ease that would look affected on anyone else. With Cameron, it looks exactly as it’s intended to, and Ed feels the familiar half-stab, half-twist of something painfully close to jealousy, and yet not quite.

“How much has being posh held you back, politically?”

“Ah, the old posh question-“

“The posh question-“

“I can’t believe this.” Ed shakes his head slightly at the sound of Rachel’s voice in his ear. “I can’t believe they’re making it sound like being posh is some kind of-some kind of _minority-“_

“Yeah-“ Ed shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck as he paces back and forth beside the French doors. “Yeah, I know-“ He glimpses the dining table as he turns, and suddenly he’s remembering Cameron’s mouth opening against his, the rush of pushing Cameron backwards against that wall, hand knotted into his collar-

“It makes it easier, though, for your opponents to say “The Tories, the party of the rich,” doesn’t it?”

“It probably does-because, you know, they quite like making attacks based on sort of class and background and things like that-“

“For fuck’s sake-the BBC have just given him an _opening_ to say that-“

“-I think that’s completely out of date,” Cameron’s saying lightly. “I think it actually switches people off.”

Ed shakes his head on autopilot. His eyes linger on the navy blue open-necked shirt, the sheer ease with which Cameron says it, and it makes him want to tighten his fingers in the material and he bites his lip, hard.

* * *

_“For some peace away from Westminster, he returns most weekends to the place his family call home.”_

“Oh, fuck off.” Alastair throws a cushion at the TV, and chooses not to notice it misses by miles. “Don’t mention the fucking raves at Chequers, why don’t you?”

“He’s good,” Fiona says, in the tone of a nurse about to inform a family member of a particularly irritating death. “This is very, very good.”

“You know-“ Cameron’s trudging along next to Landale on the screen, looking like any other dad in a winter coat on a March afternoon. Alastair longs to throw something at the TV. “London _was_ their home, and they’re at school in London-but because we live in Number 10-which-er-one of my children calls “the pretend home””-“

A laugh from Landale.

“Oh, shut up,” Alastair mutters. “If you got any more up his arse, you’d find Murdoch’s boots in the way.”

“Which never happened with you lot, of course."

"Yeah, well, 2009 conference put fucking paid to that."

"Doesn't Murdoch not like him?" Fiona asks, with a sense of reluctance.

“It doesn’t fucking matter if he doesn’t like him, he doesn’t like him less than he doesn’t like fucking Miliband, and that’s all that fucking matters.” Alastair stares at the butcher’s shop on the screen with an expression that suggests someone contemplating a massacre. “And this thing is making _Midsomer Murders_ look fucking hardcore.”

* * *

“He’s good at using his kids,” Rachel offers, as Ed paces behind the armchair. “Even if they don’t appear.”

“He’s not.” Ed could bite off his tongue the moment the words are out.

“What?”

“He’s not. Using them.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“I mean-“ Ed stumbles over the words, aware of Justine glancing at him from the sofa. “I mean, the story about the-the pretend home thing is, it’s true, I-I heard it th-somewhere.”

Rachel is silent for an excruciatingly long second. Ed bites his lip, but his attention is distracted by Cameron on-screen, chatting at a butcher’s counter like he’s there every day.

“I like the thighs, because they’re very juicy-“

Ed’s knees come dangerously close to giving way.

Rachel snorts disbelievingly. “Good God, that’s a headline.”

Ed manages to make some sort of noise in response. He thinks. He leans back against the dining room table, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the screen, not daring to let his gaze roam near his wife.

_“Ed-“_ _Cameron’s voice is a delicious groan into his shoulder. Ed wants to hear it again. And again. Cameron’s fingers curl around his knee, flex wildly, as though searching for something to ground himself and Ed, gripped with a wild sense of daring, moves his body on instinct, his hips finding a slow circle, and when Cameron’s eyes squeeze shut as he groans very sweetly, the hammer of Ed’s heart becomes almost audible._

* * *

_“And speaking of the Prime Minister’s friend and neighbour-even the children are lobbying their dad.”_

“He is clever, isn’t he?” James muses, staring at the screen.

“How d’you mean?” David asks, still breathless, hair in slight disarray from what he can easily pretend is from an impromptu nap should Nick require anything to do with FaceTime. “I mean, he is, but-“

“Well, look at that, right there.” James gestures at the screen, where Landale’s laughing at something Cameron’s saying about his daughter. “The whole Chipping Norton set thing, it nearly did for him over Leveson. Now they’ve turned it into something light-hearted. It’s clever. They’re neutralising all his weak spots.”

David hmms, then, contemplating James’ words, hums again. “You’re right. That is clever.” He stares at the screen. “I mean, it’s probably Oliver’s work, but it _is_ bloody clever. It neutralises the whole celebrity connection as well. He manages to make the whole thing seem-like a quirk, rather than something Labour could weaponise.”

“Well, let’s face it-“ James nestles against his shoulder, absent-mindedly passing the popcorn bowl to the floor. “He’s clever. We knew that. The coalition wouldn’t have survived otherwise.”

“Like I said,” David muses, eyes fixed on the screen now, even as his fingers find their way between James’, “Cameron doesn’t feel like a one-term Prime Minister.”

* * *

“Nancy has threatened to go on hunger strike unless Jeremy Clarkson is restored-“

“I can’t be watching this,” Alastair says, baldly. “They-they cannot have fucked it up this much, the Beeb-did fucking Oliver direct this, they’re turning-is Kirstie fucking Allsopp about to walk in?”

“Could only make it less wholesome,” Fiona points out, fairly. “At the moment, Norman Rockwell would be throwing up.”

“This is-this is like something out of _The Darling Fucking Buds Of May,_ I feel like I’m in fucking church without it being fucking boring-“

“I’m sure when you beat them, they’ll get given a reality show.”

Cameron’s chopping something, his tone easy, relaxed, as though he has cameras hanging out in the family kitchen every day. “-this is not exactly Gandhi-“

“No, no-“

“So we had a discussion about this this morning-“

_“And with all this going on at home, it falls to his wife, Samantha, to try and keep him sane in the weeks ahead.”_

“Oh, for God’s sake, why did Cameron have to go and marry a fucking model?”

Fiona stares at him. “Cameron’s wife’s a designer. She’s the opposite of a model. Job-wise, anyway. She literally designs bags to be carried _by_ models.”

“Designs _bags,”_ Alastair spits, bitterly, as though every single bag of Samantha Cameron’s design has dealt him a personal injury. “She’s a fucking-creative director of some massive fucking-firm for people who’ve got bored splashing cash on bloody Tuscany.”

“Where Tony went each summer.”

“Did I _ask_ for your opinion?”

“You’re the one who made me watch the fucking thing.”

“Ah, well, I hope that me and the family help him-“ Samantha manages to sound politely demurring even halfway through the first question she’s answered. “Me and the children help him-to sort of keep in-things in perspective-er-keep him grounded-help him to sort of pace himself over the next eight weeks.”

“Sanity check-“ Cameron’s cheeks, rosy with the glow of a man who knows he’s already won, crease slightly with his grin. “That’s what it’s all about-“

“I hope, I hope-“

“It’s not fair-“ Alastair almost howls at the ceiling, as though it is personally responsible, while Fiona calmly hits the pause button and waits. “For God’s sake, Miliband’s wife’s a bloody lawyer who could have been QC this year if it weren’t for his fucking job, how’s the hell a _designer_ coming across better?”

“The first time you met Samantha Cameron, you didn’t shut up about how gorgeous she was, and you’d offered to help them with the PCC by the end of the night, it was as bad as when you and Tony convinced yourselves Princess Diana was flirting with you.”

“She wasn’t fucking decimating my campaign by just bloody-“ Alastair gestures angrily at the TV screen, as though the nerve of Samantha Cameron’s mere existence can’t be encapsulated in simple words.

“Breathing?”

“And Diana was the one who changed the places round at that dinner party so we could be next to each other.”

“Yeah, of course she did. You were really her escape from the mental health dramas of the first marriage.”

“Oh, shut up.” Alastair glares at the screen, though whether he’s picturing the dinner party or just taking in Samantha Cameron again is unclear. “You’re just jealous because she asked me about William Ellis and not you.”

“Darling, you wouldn’t leave the poor woman alone the entire night. She was probably seeking to _save_ herself by bringing up state education, it was the one other thing that would shut you up-“

“Oh, piss off, I was fucking delightful.”

Fiona snorts. “Darling, if Princess Diana had been flirting with anyone in that room, there’s one person I’d have been jealous of, and it’s not Diana. Hell, if things had gone south, I’d have gone home with her.”

* * *

“OK,” Rachel’s saying, with the same determined taut cheer in her tone as earlier. “OK-it’s good, but-there’s stuff we can use. The whole-sell-by date thing, for one, I’ll get on to Tom-it’ll be a good line for PMQs-“

“Yeah.” Ed has no idea why the brightness rings false in his voice, why his mouth aches slightly from a smile Rachel can’t see. “Yeah, and the-we can definitely use it. The whole-“

“And he _did_ have his kids appear.” The note of hope rising in Rachel’s voice gives away her relief. “So we’re not the only ones-he can’t-“

He can’t use that against us. The words thud silently between them. The Tories can’t bring up the fact we have the boys filmed. Even though their kids’ faces aren’t shown, they’re still there.

It’s the same thing, Ed tells himself.

“Yeah,” he says, then again, a little more firmly. “Yeah. It’ll-it-there’s a line to take with it. Yeah.”

His eyes hover on the screen. Cameron’s in a navy-blue casual shirt, easy grin in place as he helps with the kids’ lunch, his eyes falling fondly on his daughter. “Between lunch and dinner, isn’t it-“

The camera cuts to the back of Florence’s head, wriggling happily in her chair, and Ed feels something pull in his chest at the realisation that he’s pretty sure one of the boys sat in that chair last time they were there. He thinks it was Sam.

“So they’ve done the whole happy-family image-“ Rachel is saying in his ear, but even as Ed nods silently, something curls tightly under his ribs, the knowledge that for Cameron, it’s not an image at all, and it’s just one more thing on their side.

* * *

“So Nancy’s hunger strike this morning lasted approximately forty-five minutes-“

“Yeah, Nance, how is the hunger strike going, enlighten us-“

Both Alastair and Fiona wince at the sound of Cameron’s daughter’s voice, bright and bushy-tailed and far too easy to like. “Well, you see-“

_“Family time’s precious for any Prime Minister-“_

“Between lunch and dinner, isn’t it?”

Alastair searches for a line about foodbanks, but doesn’t have the heart. Instead, he stares at the backs of the two other Cameron childrens’ heads. Elwen’s still in his football shirt, perched between his sisters, the image of happy, healthy, boyishness. Florence is wriggling about in her chair, little voice fluting into the air. Alastair never knew you could feel utterly depressed at the sight of a pretty child’s rosy, chubby little cheeks before.

“The only thing missing is a pair of fucking pigtails,” he mutters, summing the whole issue up in one succinct statement of trichological mournfulness.

“Not sure that’s a healthy way to speak about a four-year-old,” Fiona reminds him, flatly.

_“But what we know now is that if he doesn’t get more time with his family in a few weeks-“_

“They look like a bloody furniture catalogue,” Alastair says, not even working up the strength to glare at the sight of the three Cameron children perched in a row at their dining-room table, plates being fussed over by their parents. “The kids are even in bloody size order.”

_“-he’ll certainly get it in five years’ time. James Landale, BBC News, in the Cotswolds-“_

“WHAT?”

Fiona slaps her hand over her chest. “Fuck, Alastair, my eardrum-“

“He’s not fucking-“ Alastair nearly kicks the coffee table over. “Miliband’s fucking ended with-they’ve basically just announced Cameron’s fucking _won_ , they finished _our_ bloody one with them sniggering that it wouldn’t be a walk in the fucking _park-“_

“You mean Ed’s team’s,” Fiona points out, mildly. “Not yours’.”

Alastair stops, breathing hard. “That’s what I fucking said.”

“Mmm, no, you didn’t.”

Fiona meets his gaze. Alastair looks away, back at the TV screen. “They’ve basically just fucking announced the election for him,” he mutters. “They even got a better fucking closing line.”

“Alastair.”

“What?”

“You know damn well that the closing line wouldn’t have saved it if the rest of it had been terrible.”

Alastair doesn’t dignify this with a response.

“They haven’t shown their kids’ faces,” Fiona points out.

Alastair vents his frustration with an idle kick at the wooden floor. “Do you think I didn’t fucking notice? I mean, I was waiting for the Famous fucking Five to walk in and send them off to Malory bloody Towers, but aside from that-“

“Ed’s showing his kids’, isn’t he?” Fiona’s voice is deliberately calm.

Alastair stops, breathing hard, and then meets her gaze. “We’re not changing that now,” he says, not looking away. “It’s already all arranged.”

Fiona doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

“Besides, we need Ed’s kids. We need to-Cameron doesn’t have to show that he’s a-“ He searches for the word.

“A family man,” Fiona finishes for him. “He’s a family man. But he doesn’t need-“

Alastair doesn’t need her to finish the sentence.

“We can’t change it now,” he says, instead. “It’s what we’ve got.”

Fiona nods, because she knows he’s right. And that he doesn’t need to be reminded of just how easily they could change _what_ to _all._

* * *

“So you guys don’t even get to see it before it goes out?”

Nancy shakes her head, idly sketching out the pencil drawing she’s making of Larry’s ear. “Nope. It’ll be done by the time we’re back. They haven’t even let Dad see most of it.”

Bea, who’s occupying herself with spinning round on the stool next to her, sucks on a lollipop contemplatively. “That sucks. I’d kill Dad.”

“It’s not Dad’s fault” Nancy muses, fairly, saving her sketchpad just in time as Elwen clatters past her. _“Ow_ , El, for God’s sake-no, it’s up to Uncle Craig and people like that.”

“It won’t be that bad” Lola points out, with an attempt at a bracing tone, nudging Nancy’s arm as she turns her sheet of paper to the side, and studies it with pursed lips. “Do you think this looks like Astrid’s hamster or more like a dog-“

“Dog” Felix says. “Definitely dog.”

“Yeah, and yours looks more like a carrot, so just shut _up-“_

“Kids.” Nicki claps her hands together, making Bea jump and nearly swallow her lollipop-Lola, who has been ignoring her in studied silence, smirks. “This does not sound like you’re creating the next Van Gogh.”

“Van Gogh?” Felix waves his pencil. “Does that mean I get to slice off Lola’s ear-“

_“Ow-“_ Bea scrabbles for balance, legs kicking into the air, managing to right herself at the last moment as she pushes Will’s arm away from her throat. “What the _hell_ , you _moron-“_

“Bea.” Nicki claps her hands, moves Will carefully back from Bea’s shoulders. Bea glowers indignantly. “He _assaulted_ me.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, turning back to her sketchpad. Nicki can sort it out; she’s used to Bea.

Nicki’s used to all of them. Nancy can’t remember exactly when she started coming to Nicki’s art classes, but they hadn’t been living in Downing Street for very long. Bea and Will came along with them, because they did most things with Bea and Will, then, and the second Auntie Frances had heard about it, she’d asked if she could bring Luke and Liberty along. Lola started coming along when she heard Bea was going, perhaps foreseeing Bea claiming it as yet another pursuit she could share with Nancy alone, and then Felix tagged along. Astrid and Flo come too, but they’re in the younger class, taken by Polly. Nancy might love her sewing and designing, but she loves the way she has to concentrate on it, focusing on the tiny details, which knot to gently pull, which direction to tease a pattern in. With art, sometimes her mind can go blank, while she watches herself sketch out thin pencil lines or gently wash paint over the page, as gently as when they’re in the bath and she washes Flo’s hair.

“Is that Larry?” Nicki’s peering over Nancy’s shoulder at her page.

“Yep.” Nancy sharpens one corner, leaning in to shade it carefully. “It’s for Flo.” One thing Nancy likes about Nicki is that she asks questions about Downing Street just the same way that she asks questions about anyone else’s house.

“I did manage to do half an ear of Mars“ Bea points out. “But then it’s pretty hard to remember given he’s dead.”

Will, who’d been slyly approaching his sister from behind again, fingers reaching towards her hair, stops, looking slightly mournful. Mars’ death had come two years before, when they’d all been on holiday in Cornwall. Nancy remembers it, because she, Liberty and Bea ended up working on a poem together in memoriam (which mostly entailed Nancy and Liberty writing it, Liberty doing the actual transcribing, while Bea wandered around sadly behind her in the bedroom they were sharing in the holiday cottage, dictating random memories, using the twin excuses of grieving and dyslexia to excuse not actually writing the poem herself.) (The other reason she remembers it is because of the amount of times Uncle George complained about his hair being ruined as he, Dad and Uncle Michael took turns digging a makeshift grave in the cottage garden, Auntie Sarah having managed to dry her tears a little more quickly when it became clear that Bea’s impassioned plea for the internment to take place in their own garden would have involved transporting a two-weeks-dead dog corpse in the back of the car, and practicality had overtaken sentiment. “Like bloody _Breaking Bad_ , this early in the morning,“ Nancy had heard Uncle George mutter fretfully, as he lackadaisically inserted the trowel into the soil again, examining his hands with an air of grievance. “My nails are _ruined.”)_

“That does make it harder” Nicki concedes.

Elwen shoves over his picture of a football. “Nik-you said you’d help me with the shading-“

Bea takes the moment to lean in to the two younger girls. “Pity we don’t have those pencils from the altar last year.”

“You mean, pity you didn’t get to nick them again” mutters Lola. Nancy aims a gentle kick at her ankle.

Bea just arches an eyebrow. Auntie Sarah had managed an impressive half-hour of shouting at a consistently high enough volume to draw Uncle Michael from his office to ask who on earth had died when she’d found out that Bea was kicked out of being an altar girl for nicking sweets, pencils and a gold candlestick from the St Mary Abbots vestry.

Bea waits until Lola looks away before she shoots Nancy a conspiratorial grin. Nancy returns it, Bea’s green eyes dancing inches from her own. Nancy remembers Lola’s elbows jolting hers’ in a hundred class pictures but Bea’s face has been pressed against her own, eyelashes brushing each other’s cheeks, since the day she was born.

* * *

“And we’re moving, moving, moving along-“

“George.” Frances manages to keep clapping, her husband’s name uttered out of the side of her mouth as she flashes a bright smile to the myriad of young girls bumping into each other on their way off-stage. “If you don’t shut up, you can walk outside and sit in the damn car for the rest of the show.”

George casts her a dark sidelong glance. “If I begged you, would you let me?”

Frances kicks him.

_“Ow.”_ George hisses like a cat, reaching down to rub his ankle. “You’ve _injured_ me.” On Frances’ other side, Kate winces in sympathy.

“Good.” Frances’ tone has the slightest of edges to it, that only George would catch. His eyes sharpen, as he sits back up in his seat, his eyes falling on his daughter sitting with her classmates in the front row, her dark head bent against Clemmie’s almost-golden one, the two little girls engrossed in conversation.

George glances at Frances, then again. Then slowly slides his hand into his pocket.

Frances’ hand smacks his wrist.

_“Oi.”_ George shakes his hand with rather more of an aggrieved look than the gesture merits.

Frances takes his chin in her hand and turns it back to the stage. George huffs, fixing his eyes on the parade of girls now taking it in slow turn to receive a trophy for netball.

“I was checking-“

“Shhh.”

George rolls his eyes, waiting until the round of applause around them breaks out, to lean over to Frances. “I was checking the BBC profile” he informs her, in a hiss that somehow manages to be louder than if he’d stood up on his seat and shouted it.

“Shhh.”

George flops back in his seat, joining in the clapping with two slow hand smacks at the end. “There can’t be many more” he whispers imploringly. “I had to look up what one of the bloody things even was.”

“From a boy who went to St Paul’s, that isn’t as biting as it could have been.”

George huffs, giving his phone an aggrieved look. He glances at Frances, then away.

“I was checking the BBC” he says, more quietly.

Frances meets his gaze, eyebrow arching very slightly.

“Honestly.”

Frances doesn’t say anything but after another moment, she hands him his phone back.

George takes it with a nod of thanks. For a moment, the two sit in agreeable silence.

“Now-“ High Mistress Farr folds her hands. “One team we can all congratulate is-“

“Oh, _hell.”_

A slow row of heads in front of them slowly turns round. Kate seems to be making a conscious, strained effort to press her lips together. Frances closes her eyes slowly and mutters something George knows she would never have said if Liberty was sitting a few rows closer.

“George.” Frances doesn’t open her eyes. “Somebody better have died.”

* * *

“Please don’t ask me if I’m retiring” David says, before the front door’s even open.

Geordie-bless Geordie-blinks. “It wasn’t the first question on my list, no.”

“Oh, good” David manages, opening the front door a little wider and gesturing him inside. “It’s the first question on everyone else’s.”

Sensing a presence at his side, he turns to find himself confronted by a pair of large, blue eyes, gazing calmly up at him.

“Hi, Flo.”

Florence wraps herself around his leg silently, peering round his knee doubtfully at Geordie. “What you doing in my house?”

“See” David tells him, before bending down to pick her up-Florence, still in her pyjamas, gives Geordie another suspicious look, sucking at her thumb for a moment. “Come on, darling, let’s go and get you ready-“

“Oh, I think Rick said he might-“ Geordie shakes his head, as Rick steps forward, camera in hand. “No pictures yet, obviously-but if she’s-are the others still in their pyjamas?”

David shakes his head, juggling Florence from one hip to the other. “No-Nance and El are getting ready, it’s just Flo needs some help-“

“Even better-“ Rick smiles at Flo, who rewards him with a long, silent stare. “If just the little one’s in her pyjamas, we could maybe-not right now, obviously, but when they’re eating breakfast-“

David meets Craig’s gaze.

“Maybe we’ll ask Sam” says Craig, after a moment of awkward silence. “You know, let’s just see-how the kids are with their breakfast-“

“Yes, Elwen still hasn’t finished his, erm, his maths homework yet-“ David shifts Florence so she’s facing over his shoulder as he carries her back into the flat. “So we’ve got a sort of last-minute panic-“

Geordie laughs, and after a moment so does Rick, and as Flo squirms herself into a more comfortable position against David’s shoulder, it feels as natural as it can with the black lens of a camera pointed at them.

* * *

“There cannot be anything that interesting about watching us eat breakfast” Nancy informs Elwen flatly, watching her brother tug at the sleeves of his sweatshirt impatiently as Michelle runs a comb through his hair, while Nancy waits for her own ponytail to be checked.

“They’re only taking pictures this time” Elwen points out, fairly, as Michelle finally deems him suitable pending Mum’s approval and releases him from the talons of the brush. “It’s not like they’re filming again.”

“Yeah, but they’re still obsessed with us eating.” Nancy steps forward, ducking her head obligingly so that Michelle can check for any strands that have inexplicably tugged themselves loose. “It’s not like it _tells_ anyone anything.” The only good part of this, Nancy considers, is that it’s unlikely that anyone at school reads the _Mail On Sunday._

“And doing homework” Elwen points out, with a grin.

Nancy glares at him. “You only left it so they couldn’t watch you shovel down your porridge.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t remember.”

“It’s not that I didn’t remember, it’s just that it’s _stupid-“_ Michelle taps Nancy’s shoulder and lets her go free, ponytail satisfactory. “They’ll just photograph you sitting on Dad’s computer instead.”

“They could always have let us sleep longer and just filmed us doing that” Elwen suggests.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “There’s no way my bedroom is going in the newspapers” she says, flatly-she’s already closed her door and added another Keep Out sign, the words inked so heavily into the paper that Nancy had nearly taken the nib off her marker pen. Aside from anything else, hardly anyone from school has seen her bedroom. Lola and May have, at sleepovers, but while Elwen doesn’t care about having his entire class running around the flat at birthday parties, Nancy prefers to have hers’ somewhere else. She’s not stupid-it’s hardly like it’s going to make the rest of the class forget who Dad is-but it’s easier, and at least she knows people aren’t accepting the invitation just to get a look at what Downing Street actually looks like.

Plus, Nancy’s bedroom is huge. This sounds like it should be a good thing-Lola certainly thinks it is-“You’re so lucky” she told Nancy bluntly, last time she was here. “My room looks like Harry Potter’s cupboard compared to yours’.” But that’s just it. The room’s massive-Nancy remembers when they first moved in, she used to get scared lying there at night, staring up into the yawning darkness, which seemed to stretch into the very corners of the ceiling and beyond, so that, with all the lights out, the room was so big it had seemed, to Nancy, that it might just go on forever. It’s one of the reasons she still likes her fairy lights on at night, even now. When she was younger, Mum had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling and walls, had three nightlights, and a type of baby lava lamp, but even that hadn’t illuminated the darkest corners of the room. Nancy’s used to it now she’s older, but when she was younger, she used to think about her bedroom at home all the time-it hadn’t been small, but it had been smaller. Nancy’s the only kid in her class to have a double bed-which again, Lola and May might love, as do Bea and Liberty-all of them can fit to bounce on it at once at sleepovers-but when she was little, seemed far too big. Nancy used to curl up as small as she could, worried that if she stretched out too far under the covers, she might roll under and disappear forever in the sheets. She doesn’t know how many girls in her year at Grey Coat will have double beds and bedrooms large enough to fit three normal-sized rooms in, but she bets it isn’t many, and the last thing she needs is for that to be the first thing they ever see about her.

“Nance-“ Nancy turns round to see Dad and Uncle Craig in the kitchen doorway, accompanied by another man Nancy vaguely recognizes from dinner parties and maybe visits to Chequers. Elwen takes the opportunity to duck down behind the sofa, clearly spotting the potential for Lego, avoiding homework, or both.

“This is Geordie-“ Dad gestures to the man next to him, who sticks out his hand with a slightly awkward look that, although she doesn’t really realise it, makes Nancy warm to him a little more. It reminds her, in a weird way, of Mr Ed Miliband.

“Hi-“ Nancy takes his hand with her smaller one and gives it a small shake, up and down. She glances at Dad, who pulls her into his side, lifting her ponytail slightly.

“Careful, Michelle just fixed it-“

“Geordie’s the man who’s going to be-interviewing Mummy-“ Dad squints across at the top of the sofa. “Why’s Elwen crawling?”

Elwen’s head pops up from behind the arm of the couch. Geordie nearly jumps out of his skin. Elwen beams at him. “Hi.”

Dad squeezes Nancy’s shoulder. “Is Mummy with-“

Nancy points through to the hallway. “Upstairs. With Isabel and Flo.”

* * *

“That’s perfect” Isabel says, running her hands up and down Samantha’s hips through the jumper. “That for the Downing Street parts, the blouse for the office. Black trousers all the way through.” The trousers are from Zara, bought years ago, but they’re handy for rewearing, with the added bonus of being from somewhere that’s not so cheap that it’ll seem like they’re trying too hard, but not expensive enough to be used under a headline about austerity. There was a time, of course, when Sam would just pick out what she thought looked good or what she might wear for a work function, but, looking at the weeks of work she and Isabel have put into choosing these outfits, it’s hard to believe now there was ever a time like that.

“All OK?” Sam can feel Dave’s presence before he’s even in the room-the natural awareness of him she’d found herself developing in the earliest months of their courtship, when she’d feel the ghost of his hands on her shoulders before they found their way there, his mouth buried in the crook of her neck, his hugs crashing into her body when he came through the door at the end of work, finesse abandoned in his need to hold her, touch her, feel her against him and breathe her in.

“Yeah.” She’s only half turned towards him before Flo, who’s been perched on the bed cross-legged, playing with her toy koala, wraps half around her, pulling herself into her lap. Sam lets her, wrapping her arms tightly around her, relishing the solid warm weight of Flo huddling into her chest, her head resting just over her mother’s heart. Before she started school, whenever there were Downing Street functions or interviews, Sam used to relish carrying Flo with her through the corridors, able to distract herself with murmurings into her daughter’s warm head, with Flo’s burbled baby-musings on colours and lights and the texture of her mother’s hair wound between her fingers. Flo’s cheek pressed against hers was the most solid, softest thing in the rooms and meetings, her little hands the real thing to curl her own fingers around, anchoring her in the real world.

Now, Flo’s head presses into her mother’s chest, her bare feet stretching out for her father to tickle, anchoring them together.

“Careful-“ Isabel reaches for Flo, well-meaning arms waiting for her, but it takes Sam a moment to let her take her, to let her daughter’s warm, squirming happiness leave her lap. Stay, she wants to say. Let her breathe Flo in, hide in her hair.

Dave moves closer to her, his arm around her waist. Sam leans into his shoulder, relishing the warm solidity of him, something he’s passed on to Flo, not in build but in the uproarious giggles she bursts into as Isabel carries her out of the room, the clap of her little hands together. She breathes in his sweet, warm scent, his mouth resting against her head, almost a kiss, but not quite.

“You don’t have to do it” he says, but they both know she does. She does, or they’ll need the kids. And so she has to.

She takes Dave’s hand in hers’, strokes her thumb across his palm. “Craig’s going to be there” she says, which isn’t a question. She likes Craig, of course she does. But he’s not the same as Isabel.

Dave kisses her hair then, tucks a strand behind her ear, a habit he developed early in their relationship when she was painting or bent over a sketchpad, tracing out a design. “Do you know what you want to say?” he says, and she shakes her head.

Dave takes in a breath, and Sam shakes her head again before he can say anything. “No. It would be worse if-“ If she rehearsed it. She doesn’t have to say it. She can’t squeeze everything about Ivan into simple short sentences. The nights you lie awake, hospital tiles pressing into your cheek, your arm stretched over the mattress so your finger can stroke his hand back and forth, through each hour. The way his mouth stretches into a smile, showing his teeth, his eyes settling on your face for a moment, as he listens to what might, for a few seconds to him, be words or just your voice. They can’t be folded and crammed into neat words, to be laid out under a headline. Ivan is too much, too big for that.

She sits with her head on David’s shoulder. Neither of them speak, each feeling the other breathe, until a few minutes later, Florence scampers back into the room, bare feet padding along the carpet under White Company or John Lewis pyjamas, and crawls up onto the bed between them, each of her hands taking one of theirs, pulling the three of them together.

* * *

“So remember-“ Mummy is touching Sam’s nose, which he doesn’t like. He scrunches it, to make her finger go away. “You need to help Daddy today, OK?”

Sam turns his face away and presses his forehead into Daniel’s arm, where he can hide, nice and good.

“More cameras” says Daniel, and his voice is hurting and loud so Sam presses his hand into one ear so that he can squirm in closer and Daniel’s arm won’t go away.

“Yes, there’ll be more cameras-“ Mummy’s voice is too loud and bright, because Daniel’s voice wasn’t happy like hers’, though Mummy’s doesn’t sound properly happy either. “But not until after school, mister, OK?”

“A man called Ben is going to help me walk you home-“ Daddy’s standing in the hallway, which is strange, because they don’t see Daddy in the mornings much anymore and they don’t see Daddy at night either. Daddy is only there on weekends and sometimes not then. And Zia gets them from school, not Mummy or Daddy.

“That’ll be fun, won’t it, chaps?” Mummy pulls at Sam’s coat like she’s fastening it, though Zia already did that.

Sam shakes his head, because it doesn’t sound fun, and his brain’s all full up with whether it’s going to be after school and how long away after school is, but Mummy just taps his nose. “Do you not think it’ll be fun, Mr Sam, to show them-you can show how we walk home-“

“We don’t walk home” Daniel says, his voice going loud and hurting again. “Zia walks home. We walk home with Zia.”

Sam tugs at Daniel’s sleeve. “Will-when do Zia be there, then-“

“When will Zia be there?” Mummy says, though Sam was asking Daniel.

“Zia won’t be there, th-sweetie-“

“No, Zia won’t be-Zia will be here, when you come back.” Mummy gives him the big smile again, and her hand gets hold of his chin, not too hard, but trying to turn it round to look at her. “Won’t that be-you’ll be able to walk home with Daddy, and then come back here to Zia-but you can show-you can show how you walk home with Daddy, for the election-“

“Zia walks us home” Daniel says again. Sam presses his forehead into Daniel’s shoulder, where it’s warm and dark, and the floaty things dance behind his eyes. If he keeps them closed, he can pretend like they’re Octonauts and he’s dancing with them.

* * *

“So everyone’s just watching us eat porridge again” Nancy says, watching Dad sit on the sofa with his red box, Geordie sitting on the sofa opposite him unobtrusively. She eyes Rick, who’s moving around the room perfectly comfortably, testing the camera from various angles. “Not very interesting, is it?”

“It doesn’t have to be interesting” Mum says, tapping her on the head as she walks by. “I’m the one who’s got to be interesting.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “Good luck with that.”

This earns her another rap on the shoulder as Mum heads back through to the kitchen-“Just saying-“- as Elwen scrambles into the chair next to Nancy. He stops, frowning, glances at Dad over his shoulder. “Am I allowed to sit here?”

It’s Uncle Craig who answers. “Yeah, I think that’s-“ He looks over at Rick. “Is that-is that OK, for the pictures, or-“

“Yeah, that’s-“ Rick blinks and squints over at Flo, who’s making her way happily up and down past the sofas, trailing her rabbit, which has supplanted the koala, occasionally stopping to pat Dad’s knee, as though to remind herself he’s still there. “I think-are we going to get the little one at one end of the table, maybe-“

“Do you mean-“ Dad puts his red box aside and picks Flo up, making her squeal. “Here, darling, it’s breakfast time anyway-are you OK with sitting at your end of the table or-“

Flo makes a happy noise, which Dad can probably take as a yes. Nancy glances at Geordie as Dad carries Flo to the table, Elwen wriggling his chair closer to Nancy’s. “Do we have to answer questions about Dad, then?”

Dad opens his mouth, but it’s Geordie who answers. “No” he says, with a quick smile at Nancy. “This is about your mum, not your dad.”

Nancy knows that’s not true, though. Whenever people want to talk to Mum, it’s about Dad, which Nancy thinks must be pretty annoying. If she grows up and gets married and people only want to talk to her about her husband or wife, she’ll probably leave them. Then again, it seems more likely people will only want to ask her about Dad. People would only ever want to ask her about Dad even if she was Prime Minister herself.

“No, you can just-“ Flo’s arms fasten around Dad’s neck, and he holds her tighter into his chest, letting her wrap her legs round him, monkey-style. “OK, darling, do you want to sit on my knee-you can just tell him everything I don’t want him to tell you, Nance, that’ll probably fill your time-“

“What, like when you and Nick Clegg tried to put Flo’s bedside table together?” Elwen asks, perking up suddenly at an opportunity for this retelling.

Dad, Geordie and Rick all laugh. So does Uncle Craig, a little too loudly. Flo laughs too, delightedly, probably just at the sound of her own name. Nancy smiles, but she reaches for her ponytail to fiddle with, remembers, then stops. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth instead, almost without noticing.

* * *

“You look great” Isabel tells her, squeezing her hand gently. “It’s the same jumper we had-“

“With the filming.” Sam closes her eyes for less than a second, before remembering to smile at Isabel. It’s not Isabel’s fault, after all. Any of it. “I remember.”

Isabel’s hand tightens on her arm for less than a second. Sam looks at her, and her heart aches slightly. Isabel’s only a few years younger than her, but for a moment, the age gap seems immense, enormous, impossible to reach across with a single touch. For a moment, looking into Isabel’s eyes, she wonders how long it’ll seem before Nancy is this old.

“He’s not going to be doing any of the official interview while they’re eating” Craig says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway where he’d popped his head round to check if she was ready, and found his role already occupied by Isabel. “So-it’s just to add background colour, really.” He adds this last sentence apologetically, as though he himself had nothing to do with the whole thing.

But that’s not fair. It’s Craig’s job, Sam knows. It’s Dave’s job. It’s all their jobs. And now it’s hers’ too.

She takes a deep breath, tugs her jumper down. “I’m fine” she says to Isabel, and then, without hesitating, she walks out to the breakfast table, where the kids are waiting for her, almost blissfully unaware of the camera lens peering at them over the back of the sofa, waiting to snap up just the right moment, to capture forever.

* * *

“Did you know he was going to resign?” David’s only half-joking, Danny’s cheek lifting in a grin as he leans against Nick’s desk, where they’ve gathered in advance of everyone else anticipating the final Cabinet meeting.

Nick grunts in the manner of a man who’s already answered the question, several times, and never entirely to his own satisfaction. Danny shakes his head, and David relents slightly.

“No, I didn’t know he was going to fucking resign” Nick says, after a long, reluctant silence, and David presses the phone into Danny’s hand as his own shoulders shake.

He can still hear Nick’s voice, sounding distinctly less amused than the two men currently taking up space in his office. “It’s not bloody funny. This is exactly the problem with bloody Cameron.”

“What, he’s resigned?” Danny nearly drops the phone as he tries to shove David upright and fails, David propping himself up on the desk for support. “I thought that was what we were meant to be wanting out of the election, we can hardly blame him for going a bit earlier-“

“You know damn well what I mean.” Nick sighs-David checks his watch, realising he’s probably in the car after dropping the boys off. “It’s bloody Cameron. He blurts things out before he’s bloody thought about them, and he’s always able to get himself out of a tight spot.”

“Isn’t that meant to be one of his good points?” David asks, in the interests of fairness, he tells himself. And, he may admit to himself a few moments later, mutual self-interest. No one thinks any one party’s going to get an outright majority in May, after all.

Nick makes an impatient sound. “Yeah. And it’s also one of the most bloody irritating things about him.” He sighs-David can picture him tilting his head back against the car seat. “And one day, it’s going to fucking bite him in the arse, and he won’t see it coming.”

“He’d have a job seeing that coming, to be fair” Danny points out agreeably.

“Shut up, Danny.”

Danny mouths the words silently at exactly the same time as Nick, catching David’s gaze and grinning. He looks as relaxed as he always does, not at all like a man who’s been warned that he’ll be lucky to hang onto his seat within a few weeks.

The thought makes something tighten in David’s chest and he turns away from Danny for a moment. “Well” he says, making his voice as light as possible, ignoring the slight quickening of his own heart. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come before the election then, eh?”

Nick laughs. “Don’t let the party hear you saying that” he warns, without much conviction.

But they’ve learnt, over five years. Especially five years in coalition. Especially five years in coalition with the Conservatives. They’re not the way they were last time, approaching the exit poll in high spirits, counting the amount of times _Cleggmania_ appeared in some tabloid headline. None of them are the same as they were then.

They’ll still be the ones the Conservatives need, after the exit poll this time.

“I don’t think it will” Nick says, after a few seconds of contemplative silence. “But it will one day.”

David meets Danny’s gaze, able to tell by the slight twitch of his cheek that he’s heard those last words. He opens his mouth, but all he says is, “When will you be here?”

* * *

“There’s absolutely no way I’m ever going to need to know French.” Elwen pushes his empty bowl away from him, leaning his chair back on two legs.

“Well, you don’t know that.” Mum picks up Flo’s bowl, grips her arm gently as she scrambles down from the table. “For all you know, you could end up living in France.”

Elwen wrinkles his nose. “Doubt it.”

“Or you could end up being a politician like Dad and having to do speeches in French.”

Elwen snorts. “I’m never being a politician. Ever.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “I could have told you that- _ow_ , you _kicked_ me-“

“Right.” Mum holds up her hands. “Right, before anyone else gets kicked or smacked or-or God knows what, would you two get on with your breakfast before we end up getting put on the Lates list-“

“Just tell them we had a journalist in the kitchen and we couldn’t be rude and leave.” Nancy takes another mouthful of porridge.

“Oi.” Mum taps her hand, but over on the sofa, Geordie laughs.

Nancy turns round to smile triumphantly, and nearly has her head taken off by a camera.

_“Ow-“_ Nancy leans back, away from the lens.

“Sorry-“

“Do you _mind?”_

“Nancy-“

“Well, I’m _eating.”_ Nancy gives the photographer another indignant look. “I thought you said we-they wouldn’t show our faces-“

Rick holds up his hands. “Sorry-I was just trying to-“

“It’s fine.” Mum looks apologetic but her hand on Nancy’s shoulder tightens reassuringly. “Look, we just-it was agreed that-“

“Yeah, any pictures of the kids have their backs to the camera.” Uncle Craig steps forward now, with a quick grin at Nancy. “So, they-if we all just back away a bit-just-we only need one of the kids at the table and one of Dave getting Flo ready-“

“Why Flo?” asks Elwen.

Nancy snorts. “Because it’d look stupid Dad helping you yank your jumper over your head.”

“Nance!”

Nancy rolls her eyes. “Well, it would.”

Mum gives her shoulder another tap. “Are you all right with having your picture-the photo taken-“

Nancy sighs. “I don’t mind it. As long as it’s not my face.”

She turns back to the table. Mum takes a look at her, then again. “Iz, can you just check her-“

Isabel’s fingers are cool on the back of Nancy’s neck as she tightens her ponytail, while Dad places Flo back in her chair, tucks her hair behind her ears.

“Actually-“ Rick is fussing behind his camera again. “The little one, just leave her hair as it is-it’s a nice contrast with the other two in their uniforms and her in her night-thing-“

“Her name’s Flo” Nancy tells him.

“Nance.” Dad’s voice is gentle though, and he chucks her under the chin. Elwen, who’s getting the full treatment of his collar being adjusted by Isabel, yanks his chair back under the table, his leg bumping Nancy’s. Nancy glances down at her empty bowl, while Flo, looking a little bewildered, wriggles into the centre of her chair.

“OK, and just-if Mum and Dad sit down-or better yet, can we have Mum actually standing up-yeah, that’s good-“

“Is that-“

Uncle Craig gives Dad a thumbs-up. “That’s good-“

“OK, and just be talking to each other-kids, just look at your mum and dad-“

Nancy resists the urge to remind Rick of their names again. Instead, she permits herself a roll of the eyes, reasoning that it doesn’t matter if she’s facing away, and, spoon in hand, fixes her eyes on her parents as behind them, the camera clicks, takes another moment forever.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Nance-“ Dad moves his red box aside as Nancy tries to adjust it to let herself sit down. “I can’t ask the Queen to adjust the Trooping The Colour to accommodate your sleep schedule.”

Rick laughs, in the way that adults do when they think children can’t understand why they’re laughing. Nancy gives him exactly the expression this laughter calls for, before turning back to her father.

“I thought you were the one who said sleep was important for school?”

“It is.” Dad pulls another sheaf of papers out of his red box-Nancy’s always told not to look in it, but half of it seems like stuff that she’d never want to look at in a million years anyway. “But you’ve managed to sleep perfectly well every other year. The walls are bloody bombproof, you wouldn't hear if an entire coup stormed the building until they were knocking on the door."

“My ears have got sharper.” Nancy widens her eyes. “And I sleep over Horse Guards. It could damage my SATs.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

Nancy shrugs innocently. “Just saying-“

Her description of the potential negative ramifications for her educational career is interrupted by Flo-literally, strolling over and plonking herself on Dad’s lap with a bump.

“Hello, Flo-“

“I want tights-“ Florence, now kitted out in her school uniform, blinks up at her father out of big, blue eyes, tugging at the soft collar of her white polo shirt.

“Yep, I know-“ Dad takes the tights that Florence is passing him, manoeuvres her round so that she’s sitting on his knee. “Nance, can you move back a bit-“

“I’m sitting behind you” Nancy tells him, with a frown. Then she looks round and sees Rick, camera looming.

“We just need one of the little one-“

Nancy glances back at Florence, notices how Dad’s turned her away from the camera. She looks back at the camera, then watches Dad pull Flo’s hair gently into a ponytail.

Mum’s standing at the sink, rinsing Nancy’s dish. Flo pulls her feet up onto the sofa. “Mummy, my pink hair-slides-“

Mum turns to look back at her but her eyes meet Nancy’s over her head, and for a moment, she smiles, their gazes locked.

The camera clicks.

* * *

“Finally” David says, leaning back against the desk as Nick walks through the door. “I thought we were going to have to send out a search party. Vince has been forbidden from going out in the hat, remember.”

“It’s an affront to the sketchwriters” Danny chips in.

Vince tips his hat in silent assent to this.

“My apologies-“ Nick risks a stretch and then winces. “I was trying not to render myself a paraplegic.”

“Nick, exercising should not leave you more unhealthy than you were before you started.”

“I’m sure that there’s some correlation between health and physical pain.” Nick taps the desk, and David, taking pity, moves over to let him lean. “Right. Are we all-“

He trails off, looking round, taking them all in. Jo opens her mouth a few times, then closes it, glancing around herself. David could pretty much recite the steps of the walks they need to take, they’ve been gone over with Downing Street security so many times-walk round the corner. Up Downing Street. Pose for the final photograph outside the black door. The final photograph.

They’ve gone over the steps so many times, David’s almost forgotten to consider the moment they actually do it.

It seems Nick has, too. For a moment, he looks around at them, opens his mouth, as though he’s about to say something. But then he just claps his hands together, says “Shall we go?” and, with a wordless nod to the door, he and Danny lead the rest of them out.

* * *

“OK, you can’t really find anything that interesting about us driving to school” Nancy says, when she turns to fasten her seatbelt and finds Mr Greig sitting right next to her.

“Nancy!” Mum barks, as she fastens Flo into her booster seat. Flo, ponytailed and chubby-cheeked, dimples angelically.

Nancy blinks at her innocently. “What? Just saying, all Mr Greig can get from this part is us driving in the stupid car.”

“Elwen, get out of the front seat, that’s Mr Greig’s seat-“

“I did ten maths sums this morning!”

“Yeah, and if you’d done them last night, you wouldn’t have had to do them this morning, so move it.”

“I’m fine here” chips in Mr Greig, looking calmly amused as he takes in Elwen’s scowl as he throws himself out of the front seat.

“Well, Elwen isn’t fine there-“

Nancy rolls her eyes. “Oh, for-why do I have to move _again-“_

“So your brother can offer Mr Greig the front seat and show some manners. And because Flo’s already buckled in.”

Nancy curses Flo’s booster chair and an exchange of seats follows.

Once the correct seats have been assumed, and Mum’s in the driver’s seat, Nancy leans back in her seat, wedged in between Flo and Elwen, and waits. The car makes it all the way to the gates opposite St James’ Park before Mr Greig gets his first question out.

“So do you always take this route when they’re going to school?”

“Yes, we find it impossible to drive down the hallway.”

“Nancy, one more crack, and you can walk.”

“I’m being friendly.” Nancy widens her eyes innocently. “I’m showing how we deal with our problems through a sense of humour about our lifestyle.”

“Nancy, you sound like Macaulay Culkin, shut up.”

Elwen frowns. “Who’s he?”

Mum sighs and stares at Mr Greig. “Yeah, we always take this way.”

“Am I going to get described in your piece as precocious?” Nancy leans her chin on her hand.

“Nancy.”

“What? Dad said that lady for some _Red_ magazine described me as self-confident and Mr Forward at school said that was a polite term for _precocious,_ when it’s used on a girl.”

“I’m regretting letting you in the car.”

“How else would I get to school?”

“Mummy.” Flo’s fiddling with the zip at her lunchbox. “What’s in my lunch-“

Elwen pokes his head round Nancy’s shoulder. “There’s literally never anything different in your lunch, except Fridays, you only have it because the dinner ladies are Nazis-“

“Elwen-“

Nancy drums her fingers on the passenger seat. “My mother would like you not to put that line in the piece.”

Mr Greig’s shoulders are shaking.

“Flo, we’re doing spellings.” Mum taps her hands on the steering wheel. “”Go.” You know this one. “Go.””

“G-G-O-“ Florence mouths the letters phonetically.

“And grown-up sounds?”

“G-O.”

“Good girl. Elwen, “river”. Do “river”.”

“R-I-V-E-R-“

“Nancy-“

“I don’t have spellings, you already know that.”

“Times tables.”

“Yay.”

Mum glares at her over her shoulder. Nancy sighs and leans back in her seat. “Test me, go on.”

“Six times six.”

“Thirty-six.”

“Let’s go backwards. Twelve sixes-“

“Seventy-two.”

“Eleven sixes-“

“Sixty-six.”

“Ten sixes-“

“Sixty.”

“Nine sixes-“

“Fifty-four.” Nancy glances at Mr Greig. “I hope you’re writing all this down. In case most people can’t do the six times table.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Elwen, “hover”-“

“H-O-V-E-R-“

“You like reading, Nancy?” Mr Greig turns to look at her over his shoulder.

Nancy wrinkles her nose. “Sort of. I like making stuff up more than reading.” She does, strangely. She doesn’t mind reading-or she doesn’t mind being read to or doing Flo’s reading with her-but she likes coming up with her own stories. Or writing down when big things happen, though she prefers typing-sometimes it’s hard to hold all the letters in the right order when she writes them down. She likes to see something new that’s in the world just because of her, rather than something someone else has written.

“Nance.” Mum clicks her fingers. “Four times six-“

“Twenty-four.”

“Flo, “mat.””

“M-A-T.””

“Is this what it’s like in your offices?” Nancy asks Mr Greig.

“Mummy-“ Flo has succeeded in inching the zipper of her lunchbox halfway open, now burrowing her small nose in between the gap. “Mummy, my apple smells.”

“No, it doesn’t, don’t be silly.”

_“Does.”_

“It’s delicious-El-do “diver-“

“D-I-V-E-R-“

“Mummy, it’s _bad.”_

“Flo, the apple’s bright red, it’s so delicious I nearly took a damn bite out of it this morning before I put it in your lunchbox-“

“Mummy, that’s bad, that’s the d word-“

Mr Greig looks at Nancy. “Worse.”

* * *

“Co-ale-ition?” George picks up the bottle and squints at it, as though the letters might rearrange themselves into something else. “Co-ale-ition?”

David shrugs. “It was a good pun.”

“You thought it up, didn’t you?”

“It was Wychwood Brewery who made it, George.”

“You told them what to call the thing, didn’t you?”

“Prove it.”

“You thought it was brilliant, didn’t you?”

David shrugs. “It sounded funnier in my head.”

George glances at Nick. “You won’t miss this, I promise you.” He grabs for the packet of crisps, squints at the back. “See, Coalition Crunch. Nick knew not to impose his sense of humour on us.”

“Thanks a lot.” Nick snatches George’s packet. “Just for that, you’re not having any.”

“Stop redistributing my assets.”

They’re talking like it’s any other day, which David, in some ways, feels thankful for. In another way, he keeps blinking, trying to bring the room into focus, although he can see it perfectly.

It feels as though, if he just reminds himself of it enough, it will click that this is the last one. The last Cabinet meeting. The last one. Even if they’re back here after the election, it will be different. It’s how different they’ll have to wait to find out.

It’s the last one, but David can’t seem to realise it. Until he glances at Nick across the table and then looks away. But it’s enough to make out the same squint of Nick’s eyes, the same slightly caught look in his face, and for a moment, it all feels a little more real.

* * *

Nancy sighs, pulls her schoolbag a little higher over her arm. She glances at Mum, meaningfully, but Mr Greig already holds his hands up. “I’ll stay by the car, don’t worry.”

Nancy would rather he stayed _in_ the car and, glancing at Elwen, she can see he’s thinking the same, but there doesn’t seem much option. Florence, meanwhile, is happily absorbed in returning her apple, having been deemed acceptable, to her lunchbox.

“Right, everyone got everything? Elwen, if you’ve left that homework behind after everything we went through this morning doing it-“

“It’s here!”

Nancy glances ahead through the school gates. The long playground is already full of kids, Mr Wallace standing on the steps. Nancy frowns. Mr Wallace is Elwen’s teacher, but Nancy and Bea hate him-or Bea hates him, and Nancy does likewise in solidarity. When he was Bea’s Year 6 teacher, he told her class that they had a day off because all the teachers were going on strike, “thanks to Bea and her lovely father.” Nancy’s quite glad he’s not the Year 6 teacher this year, even though he’s never said anything to Elwen, though Mum says that’s probably because Auntie Sarah removed his ability to speak in anything but a low pitch.

Lola and May are sitting on the steps, Lola tearing the end off a strawberry lace. Nancy prays they don’t look over.

Lola looks over. Nancy, in the middle of reassessing her belief in any kind of theistic deity, promptly turns round. “Can I go?”

Mum sighs, plants a kiss on her head. “Yes, you can go. I’ve got to take Flo in-“

“Right-“ Nancy turns to Mr Greig, awkwardly nods her head. “It was nice to meet you” she says, which is something Dad usually says and so seems appropriate, and holds out her hand.

Mr Greig laughs, in the way grown-ups do when kids do something they don’t expect, and Nancy’s reassessing her liking of him, when he takes her hand and shakes it. “Bye, Nancy.”

“El-“

Elwen raises a hand. “Bye, Mr Greig.”

“Bye. Although I might see you later, depending on what time I finish bothering your mum-“

Mum laughs, but Nancy notices that her hand, wrapped around Flo’s, tightens slightly, as though Flo might be pulled away from her at any moment.

“Right. Well-“ With another raise of her hand, Nancy heads into the KS2 playground, Elwen following her, only for the two of them to be nearly bowled over by Felix.

“Who was that?”

Elwen shrugs, insouciance being the Cameron children’s best defence against these kinds of questions. “Someone to do with Dad.” Felix accepts this with good grace. “Where’d you get the ball?” St Mary Abbots doesn’t usually allow toys brought in from home in the playground, on the pretence that this way no one gets left out.

Felix kicks it in the air. “It’s from school, I think Gabe got it out of the cupboard at Breakfast Club-“

With a quick wave at Will, who’s ambling over with a couple of his friends to join the boys, Nancy heads for the steps, and Lola and May, who move over to make room for her.

“Who was that?” Lola demands, predictably.

Nancy shrugs, affecting her brother’s nonchalance about the situation. “Someone working with Dad.”

“Like, in the government?”

May doesn’t join in Lola’s questioning but instead offers Nancy half of a strawberry lace. Nancy chews it, mulling over her answer.

“No. He’s a journalist.”

_“Cool.”_ Lola shrieks this loud enough for half the playground to hear, and Nancy’s hand clamps onto her wrist in warning.

“Is he coming into school?”

“No. Not cool, and no. He’s not allowed.” Nancy takes another bite of the lace, chewing more fiercely. “He’s just-he’s interviewing Mum.”

“Your mum?” Lola pulls another lace from the bag. “Is this for the election?”

_“Shhhh-“_ Nancy, glancing over, can see Julianna standing nearby with her little group, casting glances over at them. Great. May rests her chin on her shoulder, breathing her in.

“Ignore Julianna” Lola says decisively, handing Nancy the bag in sympathy. “Only camera her dad’s ever seen is the one taking his mug shot.”

Nancy snorts, and, slightly cheered, takes another glance over at her.

“Yeah, for the election” she says, raising her voice very slightly this time. “He wants to ask Mum about us and stuff.”

Julianna doesn’t give much of a sign of having heard but her eyebrows knit together. Nancy feels a small triumphant flare in her own chest.

“Lola, Nancy, May-“ Miss Thompson, pushing the door open behind the three girls, nearly trips over them. Nancy pauses mid-chomp, looking up at her, anticipating the swift removal of the laces.

“Those don’t look like they’re covered by the Healthy Eating rules, do they?”

Lola smiles angelically, perhaps hoping to prevent Nancy’s anticipation being affirmed. “They’re rations.”

“Rations that, aside from anything else, are hardly being partaken of by the rest of the class-“

Nancy glances down at the tip of her own tongue, almost going cross-eyed, which is stained red, chewing the remnants of the sweet-tipped jelly in her mouth. “Do you really think they’d want it?”

The laces are swiftly removed.

* * *

“Well-“ David looks round at them all, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “This is-I looked it up last night and this is actually-I couldn’t actually work out how many Cabinet meetings we’ve had this Parliament-“

“Amen to that.”

“Thanks, George.” David gives George a nudge of his elbow-Nick notes, as he has before, how neither of them needs to look at the other, George’s lip curling in his characteristic smirk as David jolts his elbow again gently.

“Seriously-“ David waits until the laughter dies down. “I just wanted to say-we’ve touched on a lot of issues since 2010-we’ve done a lot to be proud of. We’ve dealt with-we’ve had the Libya crisis, we’ve got the economy back on track from one of the worst crises that it has faced since the Second World War-and we’ve been able to-“

He looks at Nick, their eyes meeting across the table. “We’ve been able to keep the show on the road when a lot of people predicted that this coalition wouldn’t last a year, and instead, we’ve managed to not only last a full parliament, we have managed to bring in real, lasting changes that will continue to be felt in society for years to come-we’ve revolutionised education, with the introduction of free schools-“

“Cummings” Nick is sure he hears the David next to him breathe, but when he glances at him, David’s examining his notes, his face a picture of studied innocence.

“And we’ve been able to bring in one permanent change that’ll last longer than any of our time in politics-“ David does hold his gaze this time. “We’ve made it legal for everyone to marry the person they love by bringing in same-sex marriage-“

This time a chant of assent rumbles around the table, someone down the end-Nick’s pretty sure it’s-drumming their hand on the table.

He doesn’t mind joining in, but when he glances back at David across the table, this time, David’s gaze flickers away from his for less than a second. It’s less than that, even, but Nick notices it.

David looks away from him. Nick frowns, but then the David next to him nudges his arm. “Hey.”

“What?” Nick says in an undertone-David’s now talking about what part each of them has played.

“Look.” David taps Nick’s bottle of “Co-Ale-Ition” beer. “See? Expiration date?”

Nick, frowning, tugs the bottle closer, eyes falling on the label. A wry smile twists his mouth as he glances back up at his coalition partner, over the label of a bottle celebrating their work together that says very clearly that it should be drunk by October 2015.

* * *

“So it’s just going to be a really quick interview.” Rowena gives Justine a quick smile, adjusts one of the maroon chairs they’re both perched on. “Just a few quick comments, just to raise awareness of you on the campaign trail-“

They’re sitting at the side of a sparsely-decorated school hall, the only furniture in sight the bare wooden stage which Justine was standing on a few moments before, and several lines of maroon chairs, which have been hastily piled at the sides of the room from the rows they were standing in just a few minutes ago. Anna is sitting a few metres away, perched worryingly close to the edge of her own seat, Uma sitting next to her, ostensibly engrossed in conversation with one another, both of their eyes flickering to Justine and Rowena every few seconds, a gnawing of a thumbnail or a tap of the boot denoting their taut attention.

“So-obviously, I have to ask you about the kitchen question-“ Rowena sighs and rolls her eyes conspiratorially, _I know, isn’t it silly._ “Because that’s obviously-been bubbling up in the headlines all week-“

Anna’s eyes hover on them, widening very slightly. Justine doesn’t dare quite look at her, but she gives her a slight smile, hoping to reassure that she knows this. That she’s prepared.

“Look, this is politics.” She manages to laugh. “There’s a-there’s a side of politics that’s this side that’s worth having a sense of humour about-and then there’s a more serious side-“

_“Look, we know Samantha Cameron’s doing an interview this week with You” Bob had told her._

_“With me?”_

_“No, with You.”_

_Justine had frowned. “With me, and not with me.”_

_“No, with-with You Magazine, it’s-it’s the Mail On Sunday’s-“_

_“The point is-“ Tom had sighed. “It’s going to be-a bit more personal, her interview, and-“_

_“And we need ours to be-we need to play this well.”_

_Justine had looked from one to the other of them. Ed had awkwardly covered her hand, as though suddenly deciding that this was what was needed._

_“Look” Bob had said, with a sigh, spreading his hands. “We need ours’ to be a bit personal. But short. We’re giving our big interview with you to the Mirror, for one thing. But also-“_

_“We don’t want to look like the heartless cunts who push a grieving mother off the front page, essentially” Tom says, with the grace of a reversing truck._

_Ed made a noise in his throat, as though gripped with a sudden pain, and when Justine had looked at him, question caught in her own chest, he’d looked away, his hand crawling slowly back from hers’, as though it had just remembered why it shouldn’t be there._

“You know, it’s-Ed’s grandfather, his family history-he-look, there’s all the headlines and then there’s-Ed’s grandad _died_ because of politics, he met people who were assassinated because of politics-“

_Ed had told her about Ruth First after they’d been dating-she isn’t sure if they ever moved from dating to together, or not officially, there was just a time when she started thinking they should think about moving in together, because that was what you did-but after they’d been going out for about a year. He’d told her about it over dinner one night, after a discussion about apartheid which had devolved from a discussion about some of the controversies over the New Labour government’s approach to Iraq, which were the kind of conversations they’d usually had._

_“That must have had-“ She’d faltered, wondering if she should reach across the table, take his hand-it seemed like the sort of thing you should do. “That must have had-a real impact on you.”_

_Ed had looked at her oddly for a moment, and his hand had twitched slightly, as it lay on the table next to hers’._

_“I th-suppose th-so” he’d said, and she might have covered it with her own, if he hadn’t moved it away._

“There is a really, really serious side to politics-and then, and then there’s-there is this other side” she says, taking a deep breath, her hand almost travelling to her hair, then forcing itself to stop at her side. “I just don’t see the point in getting worried about it.”

_“You can’t say that” Bob had said to Tom, in a fierce whisper that seemed almost snatched from the depths of his chest that told Justine this was usually an argument they’d have had in private. “You-for God’s sake-“_

_“It’s just-“ Tom had glanced at them. “It’s just-you know they’re going to talk about-“_

_“Becauthe it happened.” Ed’s voice had cracked between them, making Justine jump, and turn to look at him. Ed’s gaze had been fixed on Tom suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “That’th why Sama-Cameron’s wife will talk about it.”_

_There’d been a short silence, Bob’s gaze resting on her husband’s face._

_“Yeah, well-“ Tom had made an attempt to rally. “It’s still the same thing, it just-it’s not going to look good if we seem to try to-knock it off the front pages-“_

_“We’ve got it” Ed had said, voice suddenly harder. “It’th not going to be a big interview.” For a moment, something in his tone had made Justine think he was going to put his arm around her. His arm had twitched as though it thought the same thing, but after a few long seconds of silence, it had stayed by his side, but Tom’s gaze had dropped away._

“Or you just have a sense of humour about it.” Justine had wrapped her hands together in her lap and smiled at Rowena. “At the end of the day none of that is that important.” She’d adjusted her blouse, the one with the grid lines that Rachel and Anna had chosen after half an hour of careful vetting.

“There are some really serious issues.” She tries not to touch her hair, that Anna had insisted on blow-drying herself. “And it is down to people to make a choice about what they see as serious.”

Rowena nods, a little too understandingly. Justine forces herself not to touch her cheeks, powdered with foundation by Anna several more times than she would have liked, and smiles.

* * *

“I mean, I might as well say it while I can-“ Nick waits a moment, allowing the laughter around the table to die down. “I would like to thank-before I get into every reason the country shouldn’t give him a majority in eight weeks-“

More laughter.

“I would like to thank the Prime Minister-“ Nick turns to him, with a grin and an outstretched hand. “For everything he and the Chancellor have done personally to keep the coalition together-this couldn’t have-we’ve definitely had our moments-“

“Moments are right- _ow-“_

“Shut up,” David orders, as George checks his knee with an aggrieved look. “I’m being praised.”

George yanks his trouser leg up. “I’m already _bruised.”_

“Sure it’s not the first time,”, mutters Danny. George’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

“Anyway-“ Nick shakes his head. “We’ve definitely had our moments, as is evident by-this little double act-“ George now throwing a pen at David-but in all seriousness-“ Nick turns to the rest of the table, clapping his hands, as the laughter dies down. “We’ve got to-David’s right, we’ve made some major achievements throughout this coalition and David and George have been the people who’ve held this together, so I would like to-before I ask everyone not to vote for them next week, I would like to thank them.”

There’s an outbreak of applause, even as their David yanks at Nick’s elbow. “Don’t mention us, why don’t you?”

“I was coming to you-“

“Actually, can I just interject, Nick-“

“You’ve even-see, this-this is what we’ve put up with through the coalition-“ Nick laughs. “I _will_ let the Prime Minister interject for a moment, but this is-see, if there should be any further negotiations, this is something that will absolutely be being brought up-“

“I just wanted-see, this is actually for the benefit of our coalition partners-“ David leans forward slightly, looking at Nick more than the rest of the table. “I wanted to put on the record that the coalition owes-the survival of the coalition is also owed pretty much entirely to the Liberal Democrats as well as to the Conservatives and to Nick personally. He’s had-he’s taken a lot of flak for the decision to go into coalition with us, and he’s never wavered from it, and the coalition absolutely could not have worked without him, so-“

“Hear, hear-“

Nick opens his mouth and is cut off by Danny banging him on the back. “Thanks-thanks, Danny, I was going to _thank_ the Prime Minister, I’m still just trying to get my breath now-“

As the words dissolve into more laughter, David watches Nick for a moment, and wonders how many of his MPs are thinking the same thing. He thinks, not for the first time that Nick is much nicer than he is.

Suddenly, he thinks of Miliband, and of the fact that Falconer and Livesey will be handing his plans in today, and his pen suddenly feels too warm in his fingers.

* * *

“So, I’d like to echo the words of the Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister-“ David turns round from the board, as Oliver dives for his sheet of paper, only just rescuing it. “Going through the achievements of the government, we have-we have changed a considerable amount-“

A chorus of “Hear, hear” in response.

“And we have been doing that whilst dealing with one of the greatest economic crises in history, as the Chancellor has been keen to point out-“

George raises a highlighter at him in greeting.

“But while-“ David nimbly catches the highlighter that George has just sent skittering in his general direction down the table, and pops it in his pocket, ignoring the indignant squawk that follows. “While I’ve already, I think, made my feelings about my own leader’s work in keeping the government together clear-“-a grin at Nick-“and while the Chancellor is certainly due his amount of respect for his achievements in tackling the deficit-as he will no doubt never fail to remind us-“

“Respect is right,” George calls out, across the table.

“I think we should also all give credit to the Prime Minister for the fantastic way that he has led this government since 2010.”

David’s well aware that if bets had been taken on who was likely to praise Cameron at this last Cabinet meeting, his name would have come up. Ever since his Orange Book days, there’ve been glances over their shoulders at him from some of the leftier Liberals, the ones who still mourn what could have been if only Blair had scraped a few less seats in 1997. It’s why George called him into his office three years before a coalition government was ever on the cards in the first place.

Michael does a mild double-take, which he manages to disguise with a push of his glasses. Jeremy raises an eyebrow, and even Theresa looks slightly taken aback.

It’s George whose gaze David is more strongly aware of, however. He’s leaning back slightly in his chair, and if it weren’t for the absence of the curls David had always rather liked and the added gravitas of a few lines on his face, it could be eight years ago, with the same gaze that could almost be coolly dispassionate if it weren’t for the slight curl of a smirk at his lips.

“Yes,” David continues, glancing down the table at Cameron now, who’s watching him with some amusement. “The Prime Minister should be commended for leading the coalition so brilliantly, and for proving to the whole country how effective coalition governments can be-“

George laughs, as David had known he would. He glances across the table at him, and George’s eyebrow arches very slightly, as always ahead of the game.

“-and how much better they are than weak single-party governments-“

“Ohh-“ Michael nods as he picks up the thread of it, the words dissolving into the flood of laughter rising around the table, along with Danny’s cheer and Oliver’s voice, higher-pitched than the others: _“Sabotage-“_

“He has paved the way for many more coalitions in the future and-“ David’s voice is drowned out and his sentence comes to an untimely end as a ball of paper, culprit unknown, hits him in the head.

“All right-“ Cameron raises his hand, still laughing, taps the table again. “All right, all right-I suppose I will have to take praise-“

“Spare yourself,” Nick advises him.

“Wherever it comes from-you didn’t let me finish-“ Cameron points out, and for a moment, their eyes meet across the table and it could be five years before, sitting in an office watching them on a screen, standing in the Rose Garden for all the world as if they’d planned the whole thing.

He knows, before he glances up under his eyelashes, that George will be watching him, leaning back in his chair. Their own gazes hold for a long second, George’s mouth curled in his trademark smirk, his eyebrow arched, the way they had been eight years before, and David reflects that even now, some will say this meeting is ending with too much compromise.

* * *

“So Ed knows I’m here-“ Justine looks round at the small group assembled in front of her, some just peering out over zippered coats, most with bright, eager eyes-young, a lot of them, young enough to still get excited about canvassing.

“And he says that he’s incredibly grateful for all you’re doing” she says, making sure to look at each of them in turn, making eye contact.

A couple of hours before, she’d been doing the same on the bare wooden stage at Bentley Wood, looking at an audience of schoolgirls in front of her.

_“The key message is if I can do this, you can” she’d said, sticking to the surefire, rehearsed walk back and forth that she stuck to whenever she did one of these school talks. This was different from the last one, at Sion Manning-then there’d been photographs with the pupils afterwards, the quieter girls, the ones that could be counted on not to attract the wrong sort of attention from the cameras. This time, it was a full school year, and apart from the occasional glance back at the couple of photographers crouched unobtrusively at the sides of the room, they’d been more fidgety, half-listening._

_They’re often like that. Justine tells herself it doesn’t matter, that the girls at her own comprehensive were just the same. And they were, and for a brief, painful period, she tried to be too._

_“You should do what you love-“ She’d hesitated over this, because while she believed it, the knowledge that there were things they could do that would have so much more benefit for the world, would make them matter so much more, seemed to tilt the balance more towards should._

_“But I really hope that by the time your generation is in power, there will be political husbands, not wives.”_

_One of the girls in the front row had made a slight movement of her eyebrow, but had said nothing._

Now, she looks around at the smaller, but considerably more engaged group in front of her.

“When I said to him “What should I say?”-“ Her voice grows a little stronger, encouraged by the brightness of the eyes in front of her, wrapped in scarves and jackets, but all gripped with a strange kind of constant movement-a bouncing readiness to go out and campaign for them, for what’s right.

“He said, “I think you should say the following”, which is what I’m going to say-“ She falters a little, but then plunges on. Tulip, standing to one side with her husband Chris, gives her an encouraging smile.

“Firstly, you don’t need Ed and me to tell you that every vote is going to count in this election-“

_“And number three, make sure the men, your family-“ Justine had looked round at the group of schoolgirls in front of her, who had for a moment looked far too young to even contemplate men in a way that was not as fathers, uncles, brothers. “The people in your lives-support you in your career.”_

_The girl in the front row had made another movement, but when Justine had looked at her, she’d been looking away, arching an eyebrow at her friend._

“And you don’t need Ed and me to tell you that we are being massively outspent by the Tories.” Justine nods to herself, her voice growing louder now, bolstered by the responding nod she receives from a woman holding a baby, bundled up with a Labour Party scarf around its neck. She tries to smile at the baby, never knowing quite the way to look at them, to act as if they understand or not.

“But what Ed wants to say through me to you, is that what the Tory Party doesn’t have-which we have-“ She reminds herself of this, anchoring herself to this knowledge. “Is people like you. We have people on the ground. And all the research shows-“

“We’ll have hit 4 million voters” Greg had said, with not a small amount of satisfaction a few weeks beforehand. “4 million conversations. The Tories can’t live up to this impact.”

“That it’s that personal contact that you’re making, day in and day out, that makes all the difference.”

_“So how often do you and your husband fight?”_

_Laughter had rippled through the audience, the first time they’d seemed truly engaged. Justine had pressed her lips together, reminded herself of herself at the same age._

_Except it hadn’t entirely worked, because even when she’d laughed along at that age, a little later than the others, something in her would have clung onto the words. The idea that someday, everything would make sense and people would see what was right._

_“Well-every marriage has-disagreements-“ She’d waited for the laughter to die down. “But we just chat about things at night, over supper-“ She’d met the eyes of the girl in the front row-the one whose eyebrow had arched earlier, over eyes heavy with eyeliner. “But fundamentally, we have the same values-“-she’d lain a careful emphasis on the last word-“and that is probably why we got together in the first place.”_

“The other thing that Ed said, and is saying-“ She meets Tulip’s eyes, straightens up a little at her beam. “And people look a bit surprised when he says it-“ She looks out at the small, determined little crowd with renewed confidence. “But his strong message is let’s go out and enjoy the next few weeks.”

_“But the thing I’d like you to remember-“ She’d said this with a sudden surge of conviction, seizing the opportunity to do what she was there for, to at least give these girls something to hold onto, even if they thought they’d forgotten about this within an hour. “Is that, while I’m talking about my husband, I’m also talking about my own career. Like I said, when my husband was first elected to be leader of the Labour party, quite a few people assumed I would give up my job, and I was quite taken aback because it never occurred to me.” She’d stopped on the stage, in the eyeline of the girl sitting in the front row, who’d looked straight back at her, not in the least abashed. “It’s very easy to get caught up in who my husband is, and forget that I’m here in my own right.” She’d tried to make these last words friendly, with a smile aimed at the girl, who had, for a moment, returned it, a slight curl of her mouth._

“Because this is what politics is about-“ She clasps her hands together for a moment, then forces them to drop to her side, focusing her gaze on the people in front of her, reminding herself to just concentrate on the next few words, not what was said earlier. “We’ve got a few weeks to go out and make the case to people around here-“ She takes in a deep breath, squaring her own shoulders, reminding herself of this.

“About how this country could be fairer-“ She looks at them, taking renewed solace in the fierce nods she’s receiving now. “And more equal. We’ve got an amazing opportunity-“-and she feels suddenly sure of this, allows herself to feel sure. “We can do it-“ and her next words are drowned out in the small storm of applause that breaks out, impulsively, amongst the little crowd.

“We _will_ win” she says, and she holds onto those words, all the way through the fierce hug Tulip bestows on her, through the handshakes and hugs from the people who’ve all gathered here, carving out hours of their day just to canvass and walk and _try_ for them, for her husband, for something that means something, all the way through each leaflet she carefully folds into an envelope and pushes across the table with a too-bright smile, until they’re louder than the words that that girl’s mouth had curled around and tossed out, easily, casually, like they were nothing, _Yeah, but if he wasn’t your husband, you wouldn’t be here, would you?_

* * *

“And I think-I think that concludes our business.”

There’s a tiny frisson around the table-like a blink or a flinch, but collective. A few of them even look at each other, once, twice, double-take, as though expecting someone to say there’s something else.

Then a nervous laugh breaks out from someone-George thinks it might be Jeremy, but he’s not sure because suddenly the same laughter dissolves round the table, like a wave breaking as the anticlimax crashes over them. There’s a moment of awkward glances, laughter a little too loud, before someone’s chair moves and then other people are moving-someone’s the first to reach across the table for a handshake, and then arms are stretching out everywhere, as though they’ve been waiting for permission.

George catches David’s eye across the table, notes the slight slump of relief in his shoulders. He feels a smile twitch at his own mouth, to his own surprise, much the same as it had earlier, meeting David’s gaze with a grin, even as he said the words: _“So there you have it-Labour has been campaigning for two years on the cost of living and now it has all come to precisely nothing.”_

David will have spent everything thinking about the last Cabinet meeting, and now that it’s over, into the awkward aftermath, there’s the strange feeling of gazing into the abyss and measuring how far the jump will be. It’s easier for George, who’s thought of all this in advance, even in those long-ago days when David was still measuring up whether the coalition would last until the end of 2010.

Michael touches David’s shoulder, always eager for his attention these days, and George glances at Nick, who’s still sitting in his seat. David L’s holding his gaze, saying something to him as he leans in with the sort of easy camaraderie he used to share with George over lunches together and during those few brief weeks in the Treasury together, and George feels an odd wrench of something that’s not quite jealousy but that’s entirely too close for his liking.

To tug it back down, he leans over, so he’s reaching past Nick, and lets his hand brush David’s wrist. “David-“

He feels that flinch, very slightly, of someone who wants to lean into your touch and doesn’t quite dare, and something quieter than triumph, but very like it, flares in George’s chest.

He gives David the same smirk he did then, the one that the press calls arrogant and that Thea has made him smother under tight lips and pursed smiles, the way he smothers the resentment that seethes towards her for it when he allows it to, that he lets spill over in carefully opportune moments, to see the flinch in her face, because it eases the one in his own chest when she tells him _Don’t smile like that, it pisses them off,_ and it’s not like Thea can walk away, anyway. He gives David the smirk because that’s what feels like him, much more than the smile that belongs to the cameras, and even if neither are what once felt like him in long ago childhood days, building dens and afternoons lost in bookshops and stamp collecting under the eaves of Portobello Terrace, this, at least, has been him for long enough that he can fool himself.

He gives David the smirk, lets his fingertips linger for less than a moment on David’s pulse-point, feels the temperature of his skin increase by degrees, and feels the rush of relief that comes whenever some young girl at an event laughs at something he says or the quick dart of his wink, whenever he half-gently pushes Thea’s head away after some night in a hotel on an overnight trip, his wedding ring tangled in her hair and her mouth crusted, lipstick staining her chin, whenever Poppy would let her head rest on his chest, his hand resting in her hair with a touch he could pretend wasn’t tender, so that for a moment he could kid himself this was home, whenever Seth would allow himself a quick squeeze of his hand before his speech that they could both pretend was brotherly, whenever Tamara’s gaze locked with his as she danced in front of him until she moved forward and let her leg slowly move between his as she bent down to kiss him excruciatingly slowly, so that he could almost believe the tease was enough, the relief that comes with being wanted and is never enough to be happiness.

“We made it” is all he says, and he sees the flicker in David’s eyes that isn’t disappointment, because he knows David loves James, but is a reminder, almost a bittersweet one, that they’re no longer the two men who sat in the offices at Norman Shaw South almost a decade ago, while George watched the heat rise in the other man’s face and felt that rush of fingers seizing into solid ground when the rest of you is sinking in quicksand, that knowledge that yes, you can still do this.

“We did” David says, and he gets up, one hand on Nick’s shoulder in an easier touch, one that George can see at a glance is purely brotherly, one that he recognizes from the way he and their David can touch each other, arms around each other’s shoulders without even needing to notice. “We made it.”

George shakes his hand-he lets his fingers linger only a second this time, feet having found the solid ground they were searching for. “See you on the other side, I suppose-“

David laughs, but it’s actually Nick’s face George searches for next. He’s seized with a sudden memory of them walking into this room for the first time five years beforehand, when Nick Clegg had been the man whose face and voice he’d been studying for months, but the one person who had never sat across from him during those five days of back and forth and offers and counter-offers, all of them dancing around their negotiations in the name of others. Of becoming aware of a movement behind him, turning round to see Clegg standing in the doorway, as though still unsure of whether he was allowed to be there or not. Of having the sudden thought that in five minutes, Clegg would be the one standing beside David at a podium in the Rose Garden, giving a press conference that would fill the live news broadcasts and the days-after-headlines and the history books, and that it wouldn’t be George standing next to David, where he’d become accustomed to being without quite noticing, even though a few different movements, a different play seen in after Michael’s offer as the party ached in the days after its’ third consecutive defeat, a few more confident reaches to others, and he himself might still have been there, just in the other major office. Of the feeling that Clegg, despite all the speeches and promises he’d given in the weeks beforehand, and in fact precisely because of that, was about to walk out onto the plank they were stretching out for him, and that they probably couldn’t stop it now even if they wanted to.

_“This is going to put pressure on the coalition.” David was leaning with his chin on his hand, jaw tight. “If we go too hard on this, this could really buckle the whole thing.”_

_“If we don’t go hard on this-“ Ed glanced between David and George, rapidly. “We could lose this.”_

_George had shaken his head, briefly, exasperation sharpening in his chest._

_“This could end-“ David had looked between them. “We’re-we’re caught between a rock and a hard place here, for God’s sake, we’ve been in coalition for less than a year, and the whole thing with Nick-“_

_George hadn’t rolled his eyes, but only just._

_“If things start fracturing with us-“ David had shaken his head. “It’ll-“_

_“It’ll-yeah, it’ll go-if Clegg starts sensing that we’re working against him-“ Kate had shrugged. “That could do for the whole coalition.”_

_“If it doesn’t, this could be the last time we’re in government.” George had leaned forward. “Look, there’s absolutely no way that Clegg’s going to walk out of the coalition. If he took his party into an election right now, they’d be destroyed. He knows that.”_

_David had looked up at him, across the desk. George had met his gaze. “Clegg will make the coalition work because he has to,” he says, simply._

_David had taken a deep breath. George had looked back at him, calmly._

_“This could do damage to our relationship,” David said, slowly. “Even if we keep the coalition together-it could affect his and the Lib Dems’ view of us.”_

_George did roll his eyes, this time. He looks straight back at David. “We need to win this,” he said, flatly. “We’ve got to decide what’s more important.”_

_Something had passed across David’s face, almost like a flinch._

_George had met his gaze. “Look, we have to win this fucking thing,” he said. He let the words hover in the air for a moment, before adding finally, deliberately, “Who cares what Clegg thinks?”_

_Ed L had raised an eyebrow. Kate had glanced between the two of them, lifted her shoulders in a sigh. David had met George’s gaze for a moment, then looked away. George had waited._

_He’d waited, and then David had looked back._

He looks at Nick, and Nick looks at him. “Any words of advice from the master tactician?” Nick’s voice tries too hard to be a joke and George laughs, but the sound tails off abruptly. He looks at Nick, then looks at him again.

He may not have let himself do it if he’d thought about it for another few seconds, but Nick’s half getting up from the table, and it’s time for them to leave, and the cameras are waiting for the last pictures, and it’s time for them to leave, it could be time for them to leave.

He looks at Nick, and then reaches out and his hand grips his shoulder. Nick starts slightly, but George doesn’t let himself meet his gaze, seized suddenly by an uncharacteristic wave of something worryingly close to sentiment, and he squeezes Nick’s shoulder, harder than he means to, harder than he’d like to let himself.

“I think we’ll both be back here together after the election” he says, in a voice too close to a whisper, and with another quick squeeze, he’s turning, not letting himself look at Nick, tugging his suit back into place, leaving the sudden strange urge to comfort that had leapt unusually in his chest behind him, with Clegg, where it belongs.

* * *

_Cameron on top of him, his chest pressed against Ed’s so that for a dizzying, delicious moment, Ed can feel the whole of their upper bodies pressed against each other, his head over the arm of the sofa. They’re in the middle of the fucking Hall at Chequers, for God’s sake, and Cameron’s kissing him, mouth pressing feverishly to Ed’s again and again, their hips rolling against each other in an achingly sweet rhythm, and Ed’s fingers are digging into David’s shirt, as if they could just rip through the material….._

“So you’re Daniel.” Ben is crouched down next to him, tapping Sam on the nose very deliberately. “And you’re Sam.”

Sam’s face crumples into a giggle under his black curls, in a way that Ed rarely sees. “No-“

“No?” Ben’s eyes widen. “So _you’re_ Daniel-“ He taps Sam’s nose again. “And _you’re_ Sam-“ He pats Daniel’s head.

Sam shakes his head, giggling uproariously. Ed watches, caught between a strange fondness at the sight and an uncomfortable tightening in his chest.

“OK.” Rachel claps her hands together. “So what we’re going to have is-just shots of them walking down the street-“

“Yeah, I think-“ Tom glances at Ben. “If Ben’s going to be in the shot with them-“

“Yeah, it’s going to be interactive, so-“ Rachel glances at Daniel and Sam. “Just Ben asking you questions while you-“

“You guys just talk amongst yourselves-“ One of the camera crew peers up from behind the lens. “And we’ll be-we’ll be somewhere ahead of you, because most of it’s just going to be us walking-and then we’ll get a couple of shots of you and the boys from a distance-just talking like you always do-“

Ed has the sudden, sharp thought that this should be an easy instruction.

But Rachel’s nodding and the cameras are watching and he should be able to walk the boys home from school. It is something that, a small, insistent part of him wants to be known, he should be able to do.

“Right, well-come on, th-weetie-“ He takes Sam’s hand awkwardly, glancing at the pavement. “You go-“

“I want to hold Ben’s hand” Daniel says suddenly, firmly.

“Um-“ Ed glances at Ben, thoughts already half-mangling an apology. “He-um-Ben needs to do his job, th-sweetie-“

“I want to hold Ben’s hand.”

“Hey, we could-“ Ben holds up his hands. “We could manage that-see, if we go-how about-Daniel, you go between your dad and me-and hold Dad’s hand on that one side-“

Daniel slowly complies, though he makes sure to reach out and fasten his fingers around Ben’s first, casting Ed a doubtful glance, as though waiting to be tugged away.

“What it is to be popular” Ben says, with a wink at Ed.

Ed manages a laugh that is only a little tighter than usual.

* * *

“OK-“ Geordie gives her a smile from the other end of the sofa. “First difficult question.”

“Brilliant-“

They’re sitting at either end of the yellow sofa. Originally, Geordie had glanced enquiringly at the one opposite, as though pondering a respectful distance, but Sam had patted the cushion at the end. If it was meant to be opening up, she wasn’t going to be doing it across the coffee table.

“Don’t worry, it’s not-“ Geordie holds up his hands. “It’s not anything too dramatic, this one, this is just-to clear up a little rumour-“

“Right-“

“A little-bit of a _mischievous_ rumour, this one, and-I think it cropped up for the first time in the 2010 election, and-it might have been started by your good friend Mr Ed Vaizey-“ Geordie gives her a grin.

“Right, by Ed-Ed, I think it was-“ Samantha doesn’t have to try to laugh at this bit, her mind suddenly full of the couple of nights after the first TV interview she’d ever done, her hands resting on her stomach, willing Florence not to kick too much, to settle for the night, Dave with his phone pressed to his cheek, listening to Andy on the other end, only to suddenly erupt with “Oh, for _fuck’s sake-“_

“Yes, and this was-this was quite a scandalous rumour-“ Geordie laughs. “There was-a little bird going around saying-that you’d once voted Labour?”

_“Does he know you voted Green?” Venetia had been lying on her bed, having been rather sangfroid about Sam giving up one of the nights of the long weekend she’d been visiting her in Bristol, to have Dave drop her off in the early hours of this morning, before heading off back to London at the crack of dawn._

_“Haven’t discussed it.” Sam was concentrating on her eyeliner, struggling not to blink, even as her eye watered slightly. “We haven’t talked about politics at all, really.”_

_Venetia, lying back in her fishnet stockings, backcombing her hair slightly, raised an eyebrow. “Make sure you get engaged before you bring that up. You can’t be walking around at those Tory MP selections and then have one of them suddenly pull out that you’re a Greenie.”_

_Samantha had thrown a lipstick at her, which Venetia had ducked eagerly._

“Oh God, don’t say you voted Green,” Craig had told her the night before, when they’d glanced at this question on the long list. “Please. It’ll just start the whole thing up again.”

Sam had arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t the whole thing meant to be honest?”

Lynton, on the other end of the Skype call, had made an impatient sound, and it had been Dave who’d squeezed her arm gently. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be. It’s just that-“

“If you say you voted Green, that just brings the whole “Did she vote Labour?” headline back,” Craig had explained, jaw tightening as he glanced at the laptop. “Just with a different phrase. It’s better to just sidestep the issue altogether.”

“So you want me to lie?” Sam had waited until Craig looked at her, then made sure to return his gaze. “If he asks me directly?”

Craig glanced at Dave, clearly hoping for some help. But Dave’s hand had stayed on her arm. Samantha had felt a rush of warmth at the sheer solidity of him at her side.

“Not _lie”_ Craig had huffed eventually, with a glance away, clearly wishing Lynton would reappear in the kitchen in front of the cabinets to provide some moral support. “Just-say you didn’t vote for other parties-“

“I did vote for other parties.”

Craig’s jaw tenses. He breathes out slowly, then steeples his fingers together. “OK, how about this? Just make sure you say that you’re a Tory. If they ask you outright, then just say that “I’m a Conservative.” Talk about your dad, compassionate Conservatism, that sort of thing.” Craig shakes his head. “It’s not Jeremy Paxman, Geordie’s not going to push you too hard on that.”

Sam had known that, of course. She’d glanced at Dave, then at Craig, both of them waiting to see how she’d play her hand.

“I could do that,” she’d said, eventually, slowly, and hadn’t missed Craig’s exhalation.

“Good,” he’d said, not bothering to disguise his relief. “Just-redirect it to-if you bring up compassionate Conservatism, why you care about it-they’re not going to-“

David’s arm had tensed slightly under her hand. Craig had frozen, eyes darting momentarily back and forth between their faces.

“Anyway, which stories we’re going to give about the kids-“

They’d moved onto the next question almost seamlessly, but the colour had risen slightly in Craig’s cheeks and he studiously kept his gaze away from the photograph in the corner, Ivan’s face beaming down at them.

“I definitely-“

“So-“ Geordie laughs. “Is there any truth to that, are we going to get an exclusive-“

Samantha likes Geordie. She really does, which is why, she knows, Craig handed him this interview. They’ve kept the questions easy so far, going over the things that have been discussed before-how she was waiting with Gita and the kids at home when she got the call that they were going to Buckingham Palace, an anecdote about them visiting Grey Coat with Nancy that had got her daughter’s grudging seal of approval-“Definitely make sure they know I didn’t want him coming in the classrooms. _Definitely_ make sure they know that, Mummy,”-one about Nancy’s memoir-“You can put that in,” Nancy had declared, with far more animation. “That way, no one can say they didn’t know in case there are any challenges-“, Elwen not wanting to be a politician-this had been conceded with a shrug from El-and Florence grabbing the brooch from the Queen, which Florence had volunteered herself with a toothy, dimple-cheeked grin.

She likes Geordie, which is why she knows that he’s asking this question to warm himself up.

“I-I’m afraid I can’t give you an-not an exclusive today, no-“

“No?” Geordie shakes his head. “And there we-see, we were all getting excited-“

“Yes, well, sorry-sorry to disappoint, but-“ Sam shakes her head. “I’ve never-“ She says it truthfully, looking Geordie straight in the eyes. “I’ve never voted Labour. I can definitely tell you that, I have never in my life voted Labour.”

The unspoken words hum in the air between them.

“And that is-not to blame Ed Vaizey, who I think had-had just got the wrong end of the stick, but no, there’s-there’s no truth in that, I’m afraid, it’s not that interesting.”

“But we do get-because people _are_ always fascinated when it comes to who leading politicians marry and how similar their political beliefs are-it is worth noting-you are a little bit more bohemian than-I think everyone knows you’re a little more bohemian than David-“

“Is that a compliment?”

“It should be-“ Geordie laughs. “It should be, but-I suppose what I’m getting at is, a lot of people perceive you as more liberal, more bohemian-dare I say, more leftie than your husband is.”

“Well-“ Samantha spreads her hands. “You know, I’m probably at the-I’m definitely a social liberal, if you can say that-“ Geordie pleasantly surprises her by not widening his eyes at the fact she knows the term. “Definitely socially, I probably am-definitely to the liberal end on a lot of issues-but no, I’m definitely a Conservative-you know, my dad was a Conservative councillor and I spent-you know, God knows, years as a child knocking on doors with him-and I’m a businesswoman, you know, essentially-“

“Yes, of course-“

“So I’m a Tory because I’m passionate about business and enterprise.” Sam pauses, hooks the shiny fall of her hair behind her ear with one hand. “But-“ The words are weighed carefully on her tongue. “I’m also a compassionate Conservative.”

Geordie’s eyes soften, and he nods slowly, encouraging.

“There should-while there’s an important focus on business and enterprise, I am definitely towards the liberal end of-of conservatism when it comes to protection-for those people who can’t protect themselves.” Sam tucks her hair back behind her ears. She remembers holding Nancy snuggled into her lap, feeling Nancy’s little fingers grip into her hair every few seconds, having to tie it back in a loose bun, reflecting, for a wonderfully, blissfully ignorant moment, that she’d never had to do that with Ivan, before the realisation had sunk again, an anchor pulling her down from the inside.

“There should always be a net-“ Her voice doesn’t quite crack, but she meets Geordie’s gaze head-on. She sees the flicker of emotion cross his face, doesn’t look away. “Through which no one should fall.”

She keeps looking at Geordie, carefully doesn’t look across the room. Doesn’t look at the photograph of her son, guileless, gap-toothed smile, beaming down at her from the wall. She doesn’t have to, the weight of his gaze lying across both of their shoulders, the responsibility of it holding them both rooted to the couch.

* * *

_He’d leant his head against the steering wheel in the car, dug his teeth into his lip again and again, as though the flare of pain there could be brighter than the stinging of his eyes._

“So is this-this is the route you take with the boys every day?” Ben’s words are accompanied by a little swing of his hand from Daniel, which might look like mere childhood exuberance to _Good Morning Britain_ viewers, but is accompanied by a defiant, small yank away from his father.

“Erm-“ Ed manages a laugh, tries to tighten his fingers around Sam’s wrist-Sam’s lagging behind slightly, his little legs almost getting tangled up with each other. “Keep up, th-sweetie-er-it’s actually quite a rare treat to get to-take them home in the day-I th-sometimes take them there in the morning-“

_“Zia_ takes us home” Daniel announces, swinging his hands in a manner that manages to be both vehement and lackadaisical, as though he’s already given up on his own side of the conversation.

Ed manages to laugh, automatically expecting Justine to chip in, to redirect his complaints, or at least quieten them away from the camera lens, moving slowly back in front of them. He feels a sudden, irrational surge of annoyance at her absence between them, even if a part of him is suddenly unsure if that would quieten Daniel or not.

“So Zia takes you home-does Dad-“ Ben gives Ed an easy smile, the kind he and James and Nick are trained to give. “Does Dad do-do the school run the other way then-in the mornings-“

“Well, we try, I try, at leath-st once or twice a week, but they can be-it can be difficult-but we try, don’t we?” He glances at Sam, who looks up quizzically through his mess of dark curls, then at Daniel, who screws up his face as though debating whether or not to spit out a sweet. “We try-I th-see them more in the mornings before they go into school, when they’re having their breakfath-st-“

“We go-Zia takes us to school and back-“ Daniel announces, leaning forward to peer round Ben curiously at the second cameraman tracking them along the road. “That’s another camera.”

“Careful-don’t lean into the road, th-sweetie-“

“Here, we’ve-we’ve got him-if he just-“ Daniel’s fingers disappear into Ben’s, folded up away from the danger lurking past the kerb.

“So are the mornings really-because I imagine, with both of you working, it must be-family time must be very precious-“

“It is, definitely-“

“And so, are there-you know, stories, telly programmes, games-“

“D-definitely, we have-they’re quite fond of the Octonauts, aren’t you-“ He lifts Daniel’s wrist up questioningly-Daniel keeps his eyes on his shoes, appearing absorbed in stepping over the cracks in the pavement. “And we have-we have lots of bedtime stories, don’t we-“

“Booboo-Heehee-“ Sam burbles unexpectedly.

“Booboo and Heehee” Ed translates for Ben and the cameras.

“Booboo and Heehee?”

“Booboo and Heehee-“ Ed is seized with a sudden strange desire to pull Sam closer into his leg and hug him in silent thanks, even as Sam tilts his head, giving the same quizzical stare to the camera in front of them. “Have you not heard of them-“

“No, I think you’d better-you’d better fill me in-“

“Booboo and Heehee-they’re this-my dad used to tell me this story-because we lived in Yorkshire when I was growing up, about these two sheep that sort of-live on the Yorkshire moors and have adventures and that kind of thing-“

“I see-“

“And they’ve been-“ Ed squeezes Sam’s hand, feeling suddenly inordinately fond of his younger son. “They’ve been having a lot more adventures-in the last few years-“

“Zia told-“ Daniel pipes up suddenly, swinging both his hands wildly enough that Ed thinks for a moment that he’s going to demand another swing up. “Zia told us one-Sam asked-“

“Surfn-“ Sam burbles and Ed has to bend down slightly to hear him. “They went-Flo-nce said they went surfing-“

Something cold grips the inside of Ed’s stomach. Ben’s leaning round slightly to hear him. “Surfing?”

“Florence said surfing-Booboo and Heehee go _surfing-“_ Sam looks up at him out of wide, dark eyes, horribly young and guileless-his eyes are just like mine, Ed thinks, strangely, as though he’s never noticed it before.

“Who’s-Florence, is she-she one of your little friends-“

Ed’s head whips round, and Daniel makes a grumpy noise as his father’s fingers squeeze reflexively. Ed’s mouth opens in silent apology, but his heart is suddenly a painful, choking thump in the base of his throat.

“Booboo and Heehee went surfing-“ Daniel suddenly announces, as though just having come to this conclusion himself, and then, in the wild second of panic that Ed has when he thinks they’ve all been flung over the edge of the abyss, Daniel does the one thing Ed would have wished for him to do in that moment, and just stares up at Ben, a slight grin that’s always a little lopsided creasing his cheeks.

_“Surfing-“_ Ben responds right on cue, and Ed’s suddenly weak with relief, sure for a moment his stomach is about to collapse out of him.

“Did they go _surfing?”_ he says, and if he prompts it more to Daniel than to Sam, it at least has the desired effect, of a half-enthusiastic nod from Daniel and a muted silence from Sam, having contented himself with instigating the conversation.

“So what other things does Dad come up with?” Ben asks, steering Daniel round a lamppost. “Are there-you know, are there any other characters, any other-locations in this sort of-superior world of his-“

Ed tries not to hear the double edged blade of the words, but knows he should.

“Well, we have-my dad used to sort of-“ He manages to laugh. “Take inspiration from th-sort of furniture around the room-you know, if it was at bedtime and he needed me to-to be quiet or-so you know, we had things named after pillowcases or after sofas-“

His throat squeezes ever so slightly around the last word.

“There’s a place called Far-Away Planet where the-the characters go-“ Sam makes a little complaining sound, whether at this reminder or the fact he’s glanced up again at the camera in front of him, Ed doesn’t know, but he makes an effort to hurry on. “And-yeah, nobody on Far Away Planet is very happy, because nobody ever visits them-because they are-far away-“

“I see” says Ben, and Ed smiles tightly, his fingers around Daniel’s wrist and Sam’s sleeve and the distance between here and where Far Away Planet would be suddenly aching in his chest.

* * *

“So we’ve had-“ Geordie leans back, spreading his fingers slightly. “We’ve had-I think you might be the first Prime Minister’s wife-or spouse, I might say-“ They both avoid mentioning the need to correct himself. “To have gone to Ibiza for the clubbing scene-“

Sam laughs. “No-now, I didn’t go entirely for the clubbing scene-I went, this was, I think, in 2011, when Florence was-so Florence was a few months old and we were going there for the kids’ half-term, and I flew out with Flo-I think Dave was flying out with the other two the next day, so they could finish school-and I met up with some friends there, and we did-I confess, we did go out to a club-not with the baby, I have to add, we left Flo with-some of our friends didn’t go, but we did go out to a club the first night-“

“All the same, you are-you are regarded as somewhat of an edgier, more up-to-date version of a politician’s spouse-I mean, case in point, we were talking earlier about how you love-Policia, am I saying that right-“

“Policia-and yeah, I think-“ Sam shrugs. “You know, being able to go back upstairs to the flat and just-blast Radio 6 and listen and live-sort of live in your own world for a little while, when-you do have to keep a few things just for yourself.”

She doesn’t know how Geordie will write this up-she knows Craig will be listening from the kitchen, that every word of the draft will be pored over before it’s given the green light to appear in the _Mail On Sunday_. But it doesn’t matter, and she’s content to leave it at this anecdote. She couldn’t put into words the freedom that beats through your body in the darkness of a concert, damp underarms and music thrumming through your feet, almost lifted with the flow of the crowd. She couldn’t explain the feeling of being able to simply join with the others in giving yourselves to the harsh, angry beats without anyone looking once, then again, at your face, to tilt your head back and cling to all you can hear, knowing everyone can see you and no one can see you.

* * *

Sam is sitting on a wall.

He puts his hand out to Daniel to get up too, but Dad moves his hand back gently. “No, th-sweetie, they just want you up on the wall-“

Daniel hits at the edge of the wall, his nose crinkling a little as his hand falls away. Dad grabs onto his wrist, and Daniel makes an angry _mmm_ sound.

Sam looks over his head out at the big wide street. The cameras seem very far away, all on the other side of the road, but the man called Ben said the pictures they’re going to take are big ones, like the ones they’ve been taking here.

“Here, th-sweetie-“ Daddy tugs at his hand. “Here, do you want to stand up a bit, th-sweetie-that way, you can be on-on-it’ll look good in the picture, like you’re climbing-“

Sam is leaning off the wall to try and catch Daniel’s hand, when Dad takes hold of him under his arms, moving him back. Sam tries to make his legs bend, so that he can sit down again, but his foot slides off the wall and Dad’s only holding him by one arm so Sam twists and starts to fall.

His head lands on Daniel’s shoulder, and Daniel’s hands get stuck under his armpits. Sam’s half-leaning forward and Dad’s still got hold of him from behind. Sam tries to say something but it comes out as a scared, squawking sound.

“Th-sweetie-“

But Daniel’s hand presses under his chest and gently pushes upwards. Dad’s hands shift slightly and grip differently and then, slowly, with Daniel holding him up, Sam is pushed back onto the wall.

* * *

“OK.” Geordie shifts uncomfortably in his chair, crossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve said I’m going to ask you about-Ivan.”

Once your child dies, there will always be a space before their name. A pause, which people will fill with their own thoughts, their own questions, preventing the one question that everybody wants to ask and can’t: _how can I avoid being like you?_

But that’s not what she can say, so Samantha smiles slightly and says, “Yes,” because if there’s one thing everything that comes before will teach you to do, it’s make yourself smile.

“You’ve never-“ Geordie moves to the edge of the chair, folds and unfolds his hands. “You’ve never spoken about Ivan in interviews before-I know he always appeared with you at events and in family photographs, and David has obviously been-very open about everything he learnt, well, the two of you learnt, from your experiences with Ivan-“

“Yes-“

“I just-I want to make it clear that this is your-if you’re uncomfortable at any point with any of this, we can stop.” Geordie leans back slightly, hands open.

“Yeah-“

“If you-if you say anything, you’re going to preview the whole interview, if there’s anything in there you don’t want, we can take it out, if you want me not to broach any particular topic, you just say, and if you want to stop, you just-just let me-“ Geordie glances over at the kitchen. “Would you-would you like Craig to come and sit in, or are you comfortable-“

Sam looks up and meets Craig’s gaze. She sees the slight flinch in it.

“I will if you want me to,” he says, and she hears the silent apology in the words, for the fact they need her to do this. For the fact Dave needs her to do this.

Sam looks at him for a moment and then shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s OK,” she says, more gently. “It’s all right, Craig. It’s OK.”

Craig meets her gaze for another, longer moment, and then nods. “OK,” he says, and then, “OK.” He points to the kitchen. “I’ll be in there if you-if you need-“

They both know that he’ll be able to hear everything from the kitchen anyway, but Sam lets him have this.

She turns back to Geordie, sitting across from her, leant forward a little too much as though to disguise his nervousness. Sam takes him in, then touches the sofa next to her. “Sit here, Geordie.”

Geordie hesitates, but Sam doesn’t look away, and after a second, he gets up and moves across to sit next to her, away from the journalist’s seat, so he can be another parent, sitting next to her.

“I was going to start with-“ Geordie looks at her, and then clears his throat. “I was going to start with, when David first started speaking about Ivan publicly,” he says, more quietly now. “And I think that was-that was before he was party leader, when he was still an MP, and there was-I think a school closed nearby-“

“Yes.” Sam tucks the hair behind her ears. “That was the, the Cheyne Centre, and it was-we were, it was a good, safe place for Ivan and then we were suddenly told it was closing. Because of the-the government at the time wanted more mainstream schooling for disabled children, and so we had them wanting to encourage us to send Ivan to a-well, you know-quote, unquote-“normal” school.”

“Which obviously wouldn’t have been an option, because of how severe Ivan’s, Ivan’s needs were.”

“Yeah, we-we’d had a bit of a battle really getting Ivan into the Cheyne Centre because we-we went through this meeting-these meetings with psychologists, and the dictums at the time were that where possible, these special needs children should be mainstream-schooled, and obviously that just wasn’t-we had to fight with educational psychologists who said he had to be in a mainstream pre-school nursery, and it-it really was political correctness gone mad, and it simply wasn’t-it simply wasn’t the right thing, and-“ She feels the words pull tight in her chest-“-and it was really upsetting as a parent because-my son, our-Ivan had a feeding tube, very bad epilepsy.” The words are pulled out, the way she’d felt them being dredged from the depths of her chest then, with the shadows like bruises under her eyes, the ache in her arms, where even leaving him for an hour, Ivan always should be. “He couldn’t sit up, he couldn’t-he couldn’t defend himself, he couldn’t communicate at all. He needed to be somewhere specially, you know-more sensory and stimulating with people who would look after-people who knew how to look after him-I mean, eventually we got him a place at the-The Jack Tizard School, which is just brilliant, but at first-” She’s looking away, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And you, you’re sort of looking at these people who think that they-who are trying to tell you that your child _could_ be normal or not as-as bad as they are-and it’s like you’re listening to all these conversations that they’re having for the first time, that you’ve already had over and over when you were thinking something might come of them, and now they’re-they just are bringing it back, and you want to tell them that you’ve asked all these questions, and you can’t-you can’t let yourself ask them again, because every time, it’s like-it’s like you’re hearing the answer for the first time over and over, and so it’s better not to-not to-make yourself _hope_ for it, again.”

She stops, staring at the coffee table, blurred through her eyelashes. She reaches for the tissues, but Geordie’s hand on her arm stops her.

Geordie’s eyes are shining. He doesn’t say anything, but just squeezes, half-her wrist, half-her hand, once, softly, and it eases the knot in in her chest very slightly, makes it easier for her to squeeze her eyes shut.

“If I start crying, ignore me.”

Geordie looks stricken. “Sam, if you don’t want to continue, we’d more than understand-“

“OK-“ Craig’s voice cracks between them. “OK, look, I’ve got to step in here-“

“It’s all right, if she-if you don’t want to carry on-“

“I’ve got to.” She almost lifts her sleeve to her face, scrubs it across, then stops herself, letting the tears fall, almost challengingly. “I’ve got to, you don’t understand, it’s-it’s not better if you don’t talk about it, or if we didn’t-didn’t have Ivan in our pictures, it’s worse, because it’s like saying he wasn’t even- _here_ , and sometimes it feels like-it can hit you that it’s been, it’s been years since you last touched his cheek or-or realised that he was getting too heavy to carry, and thought about getting him a new wheelchair, or since you-“-her voice is cracking around the words-“-since you last kissed him goodnight and then you-you don’t feel-it’s like-“-and the words are breaking in her voice-“and it’s like he never even existed.”

Geordie’s hand tightens on her arm. Craig looks away, his shoulders tensing. Sam looks at his back. “You don’t have to go-“

Geordie looks down for a moment, but when he speaks, he manages to keep his voice steady. “If you want Craig to stay-“

“It’s not that, it’s that-he doesn’t have to go.”

There’s a moment when Craig seems to waver, and for a moment, Sam thinks he’s going to turn and sit down next to her. But then he looks at her over his shoulder, and he says “I-“ He jerks his head towards the kitchen. “I’ll be there if you need me.”

Geordie touches her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right to carry on?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “You cling on to all of the good he somehow brought.” She pulls a tissue loose, but doesn’t lift it yet. She tugs at her sleeves instead. “Sorry-“

“It’s fine.” Geordie eyes her worriedly. “Are you sure you’re all right to keep-“

“No, I need, need-I _wan_ t to talk about him, because we didn’t-we didn’t hide Ivan because there was no reason to hide Ivan because he was ours’, and he changed everything about the way we saw things, and he was-I never thought of Ive as being any kind of lesson but without Ivan, we wouldn’t be-every child changes who you are, but when you have a child like Ivan, you see-it’s like you’ve been seeing the world one way and then suddenly it’s turned upside down and you’re seeing all these things and you’re wondering how you never wondered about them before, and when people tell you not to talk about him-“ Her voice hovers around the words, unbearably breathless, as though they’ve sucked the oxygen from the room. “It’s like they’re trying to get you to forget.”

Geordie hesitates, the words suddenly seeming too large in his mouth. “You’re-you know you can stop if you want to? Just to be certain.”

Sam nods, knows that Geordie needs to hear himself say this.

“Ivan changed you and David?” Geordie asks it gently now, as though lifting his foot onto a minefield, tracing the ground for an explosion.

“Ive-well, any child changes you as a couple, of course, especially when it’s your first child and you go from being a couple to being a family-“

“Of course-“

“But, when your child is-disabled, severely disabled-looking after a disabled child pushes you to-to the limits of what you can cope with, you know-physically-and emotionally, actually, it’s-because there’s this baby, this child that you love more than you can possibly imagine, in some ways-in some ways more than a normal child because you just-you never stop thinking about them, you worry about them 24 hours a day. But at the same time-“ She stops, draws breath. “At the same time, you-you know you’re going to be proud of your child no matter what, but you don’t know how much, and you’re-when they do anything, it’s-you are so, so proud of them, and that just-when you hear people talking about wanting their kids to go to Oxford or to-to go to Wimbledon or become-become Prime Minister-“ She nearly laughs, but not quite. Her hand squeezes tightly around the tissue, squeezes. “And you just-all you can think about is if he’ll manage to smile, then you’re-you know how to be happy, because he’s-he’s so beautiful, just watching him laugh or gurgle, and-they don’t see how you could be happy with it, and you’re _happy_ they don’t, because you don’t need them to, and because the only way they could know that is-“ Her hand’s clenched tight in a fist around the tissue. “Is to have this-“

Geordie makes a sudden move, as though to take her arm again, but then seems to think better of it.

“And the thing is, you know that this is-you know that this is everyone else’s worst nightmare, you know that your child is everyone else’s worst nightmare, and that every time they’re looking at you, they’re-“ Her nails are digging into her palm. “They’re thanking God that this didn’t happen to them, and you want to-you want to _shake_ them for it, but at the same time, you-you know that they couldn’t have any-any idea-“ She closes her eyes, the words tapering off in a breath. “What it’s like, and how much you-“ She shakes her head. “He was very beautiful, he was-he was the gift.” She says the words slowly, out loud. “He was one of the great gifts of our lives, he was that-that-gift to us, and it sounds like you’re trying to find something out of nothing, but you realise that a day-when he’s not-if he’s not in pain, things are okay.” She swallows. “A day when you-you haven’t been to hospital, or a day when he smiled, or a day when you haven’t cried-becomes the most amazing day. You get this-pride and joy out of the tiniest little kind of triumph and Ivan gave us that-Ivan gave us that every day, and we had that, and without him, we wouldn’t have.”

She looks down at her lap, pulling at the corners of the tissue. “You know, I have this-there was this time, after Nancy was born,” she says slowly. “We were-we were having some photographs taken, of-it was at our house in Oxfordshire, and Dave and I were on the sofa, and Ivan was lying in between us, and I was sitting, with Nancy sort of-Nancy on my knee, and she was at the sitting-up stage, and she kept sort of-looking over and playing, playing with Ivan-and it was just this-these moments in between having our photos taken of them, like we would have done whatever-whatever children we’d had, and I remember these moments of us, sitting there, holding them, talking to them. Just talking. I don’t even know what about. But it’s what I remember.”

Geordie’s eyes are shining. “You sound as though Ivan brought you even closer to David,” he says, gently. “When a lot of couples are torn apart by something like that.”

Sam shakes her head. “No. I mean, yes, when, when Ivan was born, it was heartbreaking, for, for both of us, but Dave was amazing. He was never anything but optimistic, for, for Ivan and for, for us, really.”

“David had some-he didn’t have extensive experience with disability, but he had-his father had had-he’d had issues with his legs-I mean, it’s obviously nowhere near in the same category-“

“No, but-Ian, Dave’s dad-he was a brilliantly-he was an eccentric, brilliant, loving and generous man, and that really-Ian really is, that is where Dave gets his glass half-full attitude.” Her gaze falls on the wall, on a black-and-white photograph they’d used on their Christmas card one year. Nancy and Elwen had been small, and they’d been in the Notting Hill house-it had been summer, and they’d been having a party to celebrate something Sam can’t even remember. There’d still been wrapping paper scattered around the next day when Stefan had arrived to take some photos of them, and Nancy had still been playing with her balloon at the end of the sofa, tucked into Sam’s side, Elwen wriggling about, watching as Stefan popped his head out and back behind the camera, making his chubby little cheeks crease as he chortled in glee. Dave was on Elwen’s other side, and Ivan was lying across his lap, and Sam remembers, suddenly, looking at the picture, as she’d fastened her hands around Elwen’s waist to pull him back onto the sofa, hearing the low murmur of Dave’s voice, his hand stroking Ivan’s cheek. Just talking.

She pulls her gaze back to Geordie, with the odd sense that surely he must have felt something shifting in the air around them, the strange certainty settling in her chest, steadying her limbs. “And that-that got us through,” she says, the words seeming far away for a moment, until she repeats them. “And that got us through….a sense that it’s going to be OK.”

She looks back at the photo, at her husband’s face, looking at their children. “We’re going to be OK,” she repeats, and this time the words seem to become solid in the air, a firm ground to anchor her grip into.

* * *

Craig leans back, out of sight of the doorway, tilts his head back against the wall. He closes his eyes, reflexively, as though that would make Sam’s voice harder to hear, blur the words in his ears. He studiedly avoids the photograph on the wall, but feels it all the same, a gaze burning into the back of his head, a weight on his shoulders, of someone he never met.

He hasn’t felt that awareness in a while, of having been late to the party-of being the new boy. He hadn’t thought about feeling it four years before, with the drama of Andy’s resignation still shattering around everyone’s heads, to echo over and over down the months in _Leveson_ and _inquiries_ and _Rebekah._ He may have felt it, but there hadn’t been time to think about it. It wasn’t until last year, in that meeting with his phone buzzing and the Sky news alert under his hand, that he’d really seen it for the first time, the way Kate’s head had fallen forward, her hand pressing to her mouth, the slight tensing of David’s jaw, that only those closest to him would know how to read. And even though none of them had said anything, not then, and the meeting had carried on, the way it always did, it had been there all over again, the reminder that one of the people who’d been there with them almost at the start was gone.

“I’ll be with her the whole time,” he’d said to David this morning, taking a moment while Sam and Isabel were busy in the walk-in wardrobe finalising outfits. “It won’t go wrong.”

David had half-laughed, but the sound had tailed off abruptly. “It’s not that I think it’ll-“ His voice had almost cracked. “Go wrong.”

Craig had had the odd feeling of being suddenly out of his depth, as if he’d taken two steps rather than one heading down a staircase in the night. “I know-“ He’d had the sudden sense of this being an effort to say. “I know what a big deal it is for her to talk about this.”

David had looked at him then, suddenly, almost a sidelong glance. “Craig,” he said, and the tone could have been dismissive, but the words curl down sadly at the end, “you couldn’t know anything about this.”

Now, he stands still, giving Sam as much privacy as he can, as much as they can pretend is possible. He waits, listening for any sign that it’s too much, that they’ve taken too much from her, as though it isn’t them who’ve put her here in the first place, and for a moment it could be a year ago, Honor hanging around his neck as he was trying to lift a suitcase into the car, Maya screaming at him from the other side of a locked bedroom door, Iona watching from the stairs with her sharp eyes narrowed, as if seeing through the silk over the jagged words of all the adults around her, a look that he’d hoped, without knowing it, she wouldn’t wear for years.

, and she could be talking to anyone, to him or Kate, sitting at their kitchen table, over a dinner in the flat. Craig closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then opens them, and listens to his friend talk about her child.

* * *

“You didn’t-“ Geordie clears his throat. “As far as I understand it, Ivan’s-disability can’t be diagnosed in utero-so you would have had no idea before he was born?”

“No. Ivan was a breech baby so I had a caesarean-all of them were born by caesarean after that actually, they thought, it, it felt safer-and then he seemed fine when he was born, they did all their checks-he was a little bit sleepy because of the C-section but aside from that-we were, we were so excited when he was born, it wasn’t clear.”

“So Ivan wasn’t diagnosed in hospital-I mean, before leaving hospital after he was born?”

“No.” Sam tugs at the sleeve of her jumper, her eyes straying to the photograph again. “No, he was-we actually went back to my parents’ house in Oxfordshire-my mum and my stepfather’s-for a few days so that they could meet him, and because he was our first, they wanted-“

“Yeah-“

“-to be around him, to be helping out and-so it was really a few days in, when we were there, that we noticed-“

Ivan’s eyes watch her from the wall.

“You see, lots of other friends-and my sister-in-law actually, Dave’s sister, Tania-were having babies at the same time, she was due a month after me with her, her first son, and so you have this picture of how it’s going to be, with them-“ Her voice falters. “The same age.”

She tugs a strip loose from the tissue, reaches for another to twist between her fingers. “Someone once said to me, after Ivan was diagnosed,” she says quietly, “-in the first few months, that it must have been worse, because we must have thought he was-“normal.”” The word catches in her throat. “It-sounded-“

Geordie waits, makes another movement as though to reach out to her. Sam stays still, thinking, feeling the word at the back of her throat.

“When did you know?” Geordie asks, gently, that sounds less like a journalist asking the wife of someone famous for a quote for a headline, and more like a father on a sofa asking a mother about one of their babies.

Sam looks up at him. “It took a few days. It was about day-he wasn’t feeding well, not very well, and we couldn’t-he was making these funny, jerky movements, like he couldn’t control his limbs, and I just-I thought something wasn’t right. This wasn’t-this was not until day five or six, so we were getting to the stage where you get health visitors and a health visitor or midwife or whatever came round and said all new mums worry, “Don’t panic”, but I-“ Her hand closes around the tissue. “I knew, I knew something was-and eventually my mum took me to the GP, and it was-“ She hovers over the word. “It was on my birthday,” she says, with the sensation that she herself is suddenly remembering this herself. “It was on my birthday, actually, I remember-he was ten days old. It was the-we’d noticed him being a week old and then he was ten days, and I remember noticing it when we were driving to the doctor.”

Geordie looks away suddenly, only for a moment, but he looks away.

“And he said-“ Sam’s breath leaves her in a sigh. “He said, “Let’s get you checked into, let’s get you to the hospital.””

It takes a moment for Geordie to look back, but he does. “Did he already suspect-“

“I think-I mean, I think he suspected there was some sort of epileptic condition involved but he was-at first, he was wondering if he had some sort of kidney infection that was causing the weight loss, and that he wasn’t feeding well, but he-because of the movements, he had him taken in straight away for these-blood tests and lumbar punctures and other things, and then-erm-he-er-“ She tears at the tissue. “He had his first seizure, his first full-blown seizure then, in-in front of the doctors, so they obviously knew then, that this was-this was something serious.”

She looks away, up at the photograph for a moment. Geordie stays silent, perhaps wondering how to phrase his next question.

“He-erm-I was holding him,” Sam says suddenly. “When he had his first seizure. I was holding him, and he went stiff, and I just-he just screamed and he sounded like-he sounded like he was in agony, and he was just-he was jerking back and forth and I thought I was going to drop him, and I just remember-his eyes were just staring off and he was just-he was gone, he was somewhere I couldn’t-I couldn’t get to, I couldn’t get him back.”

She doesn’t look at Geordie. Ivan smiles down at her, face creased happily.

“It’s your worst nightmare,” she says, before Geordie can ask anything else. “It’s your worst nightmare, they take-they did a whole load of tests, you go into the office with the doctor and they push the box of tissues towards you and you feel like you’re in an episode of Casualty. But it wasn’t-I just remember thinking then, when he went into that seizure-the way he was screaming, I remember thinking-this is it, this is what, this is what I’d been worried about, and it’s like it’s being handed to you in front of your eyes, that-the idea that he was in pain, and it was like-now it was so obvious he was in pain and he was going to be in pain and there’s nothing I, there was nothing I could do to help him.”

The tissue is blurry in her hands. Geordie takes in a breath: “Sam-“

“It changes your life forever,” she says, before she can think twice. “Everything’s different, overnight, all the things you’ve been thinking about and planning and thinking you’ll need to-plan for and anticipate and organize, they all disappear, and they’re-it’s-it’s-“ She almost laughs, but not quite. “It’s tough, and it’s-it’s lonely and isolating initially because you realise you’re-you’re living in a completely different world to your friends who’ve had babies at the same time. They’re-they’re worrying about all these things that you were worried about two days ago, and now you’re-you’re suddenly in this weird world of doctors and social services and you know that-“ She scrunches the tissue up in her hand. “They’re already talking about when their baby will walk for the first time, or about their first day of school, and you already know that your child is never going to meet the normal milestones, and you-you don’t know if he’s ever going to smile.”

“Sam-“

“Sorry, the mascara must be halfway down my face.” She reaches for the tissues at the same time as Geordie does, and his hand bumps into hers’, and then takes hers in his.

“Do you want to-you know, we can stop,” Geordie says, and he squeezes her hand awkwardly, as though he’s just remembered this is an interview. “We can stop, if you want to-“

“No-“ She shakes her head, hears herself half-laugh, the sound cracked. “It’s not-it’s not that I don’t want to talk about Ive-I want to talk about him-here, grab the tissues for me-I’m fine, it’s just that-“ She takes in a deep breath. “Everyone thinks because you get upset you don’t want to talk about him,” she says, the words suddenly, faltering, quiet. “Or that it’s-it’s something you don’t like, to remember him, that it’s best to forget about-all the things he went through, but Ivan-Ivan’s mine. He gave us more than-“ She swallows. “I would never have not had Ivan, because it would have been a child who wasn’t Ivan”, she says softly.

Geordie takes a deep breath. For a moment, there’s silence as the words hang in the room.

“A lot of people-“ Geordie clears his throat. “A lot of people in this situation-their marriages don’t survive or they become very-frayed under the strain. But for you and David, that didn’t happen.”

Sam looks down at her hands for a long moment, thinking.

“No,” she says, slowly, with the strange feeling that she herself is coming to that realisation as she says it. “No, it didn’t. A lot of-“ She threads her fingers together for a moment, thinking her way through it. “A lot of the things we’ve gone through-because we’ve gone through them together-they’ve-it sounds cliched-but it made us stronger. It wouldn’t have been-we wouldn’t be the people we are if we hadn’t had Ivan. If we hadn’t had-everything that’s happened to us. And we’re-“ She says it slowly, feeling the words settle in her chest, as though they’ve found their place. “Stronger because of it.”

She dabs at her face with the mascara. “And I’m so grateful for that,” she says, her voice clearer now, stronger. “Because there are lots of people-in our situation-whose marriages don’t survive.”

“But yours’ has,” Geordie says softly.

“Yes,” she says slowly, and then, “Yeah. It has. More than.”

There’s a short silence.

“A lot of people-“ Geordie hesitates. “A lot of people put themselves through-a lot of people in your situation can be tempted to go to quite extreme lengths to-cure their child. There can be a lot of temptation to get involved in trials and to try-alternative treatments and that kind of thing-but you didn’t-you never went that route with Ivan, you seemed-very-obviously not passive about it, but you seemed to be-very realistic about facing what the options were?”

“Yeah, we-we didn’t-we didn’t try to find some miracle cure.” Sam folds her legs, looks down at the tiny blue dolphin leaping through her tights. “We knew from the start that-Ivan’s prognosis was very-we knew that we didn’t want Ivan’s life to be filled with medical trips and treatments and-hospital stays, and-when they wouldn’t-unless they could lead to a definite improvement, it wasn’t worth putting Ivan through the extra pain, and if-“ She looks away. “Every time someone suggests a treatment, you feel hopeful about it,” she says quietly. “But to-get your hopes up and then see it just-not working-it’s easier not to.”

Geordie nods. “You did have-you did have some help at home with Ivan-“

“Yeah, yeah, we had-we tried to take care of him on our own initially, with doctor and hospital visits, but-it just wasn’t-by the end of the first year-we’d both been working and Ivan needed 24-hour care. We were totally shattered and pretty much at-at breaking point, really, because someone had to be awake all the time with Ivan, he could never be left on his own-and eventually doctors recommended that we call the local social and family services who helped us-we were already taking on renovating the house to make things more accessible for Ive when he was older, and they helped to advise on what would be the best changes to make, and they arranged a team of specialist nurses for him, especially a night team, Michelle and Shree, who were really devoted to him, and that helped to-to ease the strain of it, a little.” She hesitates, traces the fabric of her jumper between her fingers. “They realised we needed help,” she says slowly. “But as parents-you have this feeling-it was our job to look after Ivan, it was my job to-protect him-you have this feeling that-you shouldn’t ask for help.”

Geordie’s silent, waiting, perhaps for some sign that that’s her answer.

“When Nancy and Elwen were born,” she says, more quietly. “I was dreading it. Not because I was worried they’d be unhealthy, though I was scared. But I didn’t realise until after they arrived, when I was holding them, and-when I cuddled them, they’d stop crying. If I fed them or changed them or held them, they stopped crying and they were happy again. I could fix that for them. With Ive-there was nothing I could do to make him better. I was the person who should have done that for him. And I couldn’t fix him.”

Geordie opens his mouth, then closes it. “Sam-“

“It’s just-when you have a child who’s-who suffers, who is hurting, day after day-and whose-whose quality, quality of life is significantly reduced, it’s heartbreaking, you know, the future can be-“ The enormity of it is suddenly huge, almost suffocating.

“Can be scary,” is what she says, after what feels a lot longer than it is.

“How do you deal with it?” Geordie says, after another long moment. The question is softer, simpler than it needs to be.

“You-you can’t plan for the future, you can’t really-look beyond the next few days. Or the next-day, so you-you have to learn to not think about it. You-the thing is, you are terrified of not being able to-when you picture what it might be-you’re terrified of not being able to cope with the consequences, as they are-they’re so frightening, so-you take one day at a time. You have to just-look at the next few hours, the next twenty-four hours. And that’s what it’s like, only living in one day at a time.”

“Do you-because you had two other children, now three other children-“

“Yeah-“

“You had to balance Ivan’s medical treatments and all of-all of his needs, which would have been very extensive-“

“Yeah-“

“With two younger children, and yet somehow you managed to do that, and include Ivan in family trips and outings and holidays-“

“Well, we-it was more of a-we would look at what we wanted to do with the other children and see how we could involve Ivan in that, and even when-when Ivan was in hospital, there were amazing-counsellors on hand and therapists to help Nance and Elwen with-there were special groups for the siblings of the children who were in hospital, so we were-we were incredibly lucky in that way-we had a-you know, we were incredibly fortunate, we were able to have a live-in nanny, Gita, who came with us to Downing Street, and another nanny, Sonia, who was part-time, and they were both very involved with all the kids-and obviously, because we’re both from big families, both of our parents were very involved, and all-so all our siblings were very much-there for us, especially Emily, my sister, who lives very-very near to where we used to live in W10-so when there was an emergency, there were people we knew and trusted that would look after Nancy and Elwen.”

“How often would that be?”

“It could be anything-you know, if his seizures were particularly bad or they wouldn’t stop-or we thought he seemed to be in really terrible pain, and all the treatments and medications we and the nurses were allowed to give him at home, we would take him in-and he used to get pneumonia a lot, so we’d be in hospital with that, especially in winter which was always-especially around Christmas time-and luckily, the other two were really too little to notice how different things were at that age, and we would always try to make it a special day for them, even if they had to spend it-“ She half-laughs. “You know-on a hospital ward-“

She stops, thinking. “But there were also days when-they would all be together at home-we had their playroom in the basement where Ivan’s bedroom was so they could all play together-and there were days when I really felt he’d been able to interact and get some pleasure because there were…”

The words swell in her throat and she holds them there for a moment.

“Ivan didn’t smile,” she says, softly. “A lot of the time, or if his medicines were altered, or anything like that-there would be times-when-he didn’t smile for periods of time, and there were times when-after we’d adjusted his medicines or his treatment regimes, he’d get his smile back, and then-he’d sometimes laugh when Nancy and Elwen were helping to wash his hair in the bath, or when they were cuddling him, and he had this-the sound of his laugh, it was different from anyone else’s, but I knew his-he didn’t really have one, but I knew his-I knew his voice.”

Geordie reaches as though to pass her the tissues, but Sam shakes her head. She wipes the tears with her fingertips.

“So when he did laugh-when he did laugh and smile, it was extraordinary.” She takes the box of tissues herself, cradles it between her palms. There’s a long silence, as she stares past the photograph of Ivan, until slowly, Geordie turns to look at it too.

“There are times when I try to remember what his voice sounded like.”

Geordie turns to look at her, stricken.

“I mean, I can, but-there are times when you struggle to remember the exact way his laugh sounded or his-he’d make little sounds when he was happy, when you were feeding him, and he was looking up at you. And sometimes, you get these moments when you feel like-you can’t remember it exactly. And you have to think it over a few times before you remember exactly what he sounded like. And you worry that one day you won’t remember it. His voice.”

Geordie’s hand is on her arm. Sam squeezes her eyes shut, presses her mouth against her hand, until her breathing evens out, and Geordie lets go of her with a gentle close of his fingers around her wrist.

“Disabled children-“ She shakes her head. “When Ive wasn’t in hospital, and we did things with the other kids-disabled children can find it all a bit overwhelming, you see. You might-you go to the zoo or take them to the theatre and Ivan might sleep the whole way through. And while it’s-you’re-as a parent, you’re always desperately trying to find things to make them join in, because-you’ve-you’ve always had it so easy with children who are healthy-and then there was-one thing we could do with all three of them, with one of Ivan’s carers, was swimming because-we-I mean, Dave would take Nancy and Elwen to the local swimming sessions at baths and stuff, but I remember a good time was when-I remember Ivan at the hydrotherapy pool at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, which was where we used to go for some of his treatments, and they’d sometimes let the other kids in his sessions to help them bond.” She crumples the tissue between her palms, but less vehemently this time. “I don’t know whether-you know, whether it was the warm water, which he liked-or the acoustics of the pool, maybe the music, because they used to give him music therapy-but I’d see him responding and smiling and he’d-he could sort of play with them-and-“ Nancy’s chin nestling over Ivan’s shoulder, Elwen bobbing next to him in his water wings, with Dave holding him, while Nancy’s voice echoed off the warm surfaces of the pool, “Ive-Ive, look-“

She looks at Geordie, the tears softer, now, like warm rain. “Taking him swimming was really special,” she says, and this time when she wipes the tears away, it feels like taking a breath.

Geordie takes a few moments to ask his next question. “Neither of you are-particularly overdemonstrative about this-but David has spoken in the past about how going to church and his faith, particularly your local vicars, helped when it came to coming to terms with Ivan’s loss-“

“Yeah, we-I mean, we don’t say grace around the dinner table or anything, and we don’t go to church every week-I mean, we go sometimes, I’d say about once a month-but I’m-I’d say a New Testament Christian-I believe in-sort of, you know, the basic things-forgiveness, humility, treating your neighbour as yourself, and so-when Ivan was born, we could have been-we could have been angry with God, but we felt He’d-you know, we tried to think of it as He’d given Ivan to us to look after, and we had to do the best job that we could, and we-“ She squeezes her hands together. “You know, we wouldn’t have changed Ive. The only person we would have-wanted Ive changed for was-was him, for Ive’s sake. Ive-taught us everything.”

“David’s spoken about that very openly, about how he feels that Ivan changed you both as people-I mean, obviously every child does that, but Ivan in particular seems to have-particularly on David-transformed the way he saw the world-“

“I mean, yeah, he-obviously, it affected Dave’s views on the NHS and healthcare, because it’s totally different experiencing that-you know, through observation and then actually being the parent of a child going through that-but it-it had a much bigger effect-“ The words are too small to fit around it. “It alters everything. Everything is through the-the prism of how it will affect him or how he’ll affect it. And once you realise that you’ve got that thing that changes everything, you start to notice or think about how other people have it too. It makes you-you know, keep things in perspective, you’re more sensitive to others trying to deal with what may be difficult things in their lives. It also-it also makes you tough-and-but more than anything-it made us-me and Dave and us as a family-very close and loving and just-supportive of each other.” She shrugs. “If-you know-someone else wants to criticise us, big deal. I mean, you have to be tough in politics or if your husband or wife is in politics anyway, but-if-you know, once you’ve seen your child-“ Her voice catches. “You know, what else-what does it matter?”

Geordie is watching her closely, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. “I’m not-you know, I’m not going to ask you anything about the day Ivan died.”

Sam meets his eyes, doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

“But-I know it was very sudden.”

“Yeah, it was-it was totally out of the blue, just before his-“ Her voice catches. “His seventh birthday. It was-it really was overnight, it happened so quickly-I remember, it was Ash Wednesday, it was the early hours of Ash Wednesday, and the night before, we’d been making pancakes, and he was with us. Dave had come home early from work, and we were making pancakes with the kids, and I have this-“ She leans forward suddenly, wraps her hands together. “I have this memory, of Nancy,” she says more quietly. “Ivan had sugar on his cheek from us letting him touch it-he couldn’t eat normal food, everything was liquidised-but sometimes he liked touching things, getting a sense of the texture. And he had a bit of sugar on his cheek, and I just remember Nancy reaching out and wiping it away, and she said something to him-I don’t even remember what it was. And then she kissed his cheek. And I don’t even remember what it was and it, it wasn’t the last thing she said to him. But that’s what I remember.”

She doesn’t look at Geordie. “When we had to leave him,” she says, the words each falling into the air, like a series of slow raindrops. “We had to-I don’t remember-everything about it, but nothing felt-real. It feels like everything is happening through a-through a window or-or like you’re on the wrong TV channel. It feels like in a minute you’re going to blink or shake your head and it’ll just-adjust and he’ll be there. And I remember Kate-Kate had been told, and she was at our house with Nancy and Elwen, and Sonia. And Nancy and Elwen were just-because they were used to him being in hospital or not being there when they woke up, they were just running around and playing, and I just remember-I know there were cameras all around the street, but I don’t remember seeing them or hearing them, I just remember-after a while, Dave went out to the car, and he got out his wheelchair. And it was empty. And I just remember looking at his wheelchair and then thinking, who’s got him, where is he? And just looking round-looking and looking round for him.”

Geordie puts his arm round her. Sam almost doesn’t feel it, but not in a bad way. It’s more like something natural, like an extension of her own body.

“They were playing,” she says, looking at the other photograph, of Nancy as a baby about to reach out to pat Ivan’s cheek. “And I remember-Nancy had started school, so she wasn’t at school that day, obviously, and knowing she’d ask why she wasn’t going, but just wanting them to-to keep playing a bit longer, and to not look round. Just keep playing.”

“How old were they?” Geordie says in a tone perfectly different from an interviewer.

“Five and three-just three, he’d-it had been Elwen’s birthday a couple of weeks before. But they were old enough to-I mean, Elwen was very little so he was less aware, but-they were old enough to know. Nancy-“ She takes a long, deep breath. “Nancy really remembers.”

“So you had to take them through-what had happened-“

“Yeah, we-the-the centres were really good, they arranged for them both to have some counselling and some-er-play therapy, it’s called, to help them understand what they were feeling-you know, they were little but they were angry-they were angry and confused and-“ The words pour out suddenly. “I was so scared before we had Nancy. Because we didn’t know-not for sure. Whether she’d be OK. And I remember when we saw her, and in the first few days, when we realised-she was OK. And it was like-it was like something lifting. I knew-I hadn’t-because when you’re a mum, you always feel-I knew it wasn’t me. I knew I hadn’t-I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t-given him that. And after Ive died-she was so angry, she-she couldn’t understand why he was gone, and in a way, it felt better for her to be angry, because she-it was everything I was feeling on the inside, and she was able to say it, because she was little, and she-“ She shakes her head, the torrent of words halting and twisting. “She was so angry, and I remember looking at her, when she was like that, and thinking of how happy I’d been to realise she was-that I’d kept her safe, and I remember just thinking that I’d done it again, to-that I’d done it to her. That she was this happy, healthy little-and that we hadn’t been able to keep her safe. I hadn’t been able to keep her-safe.”

Geordie’s arm tightens around her.

“And sometimes now-“ She’s hearing herself again, two months ago, feeling her hands scrabbling for her coat, “When I look at her, I just remember-“

Geordie waits, but the sentence trails off.

“It took a long time.” She tugs at her sleeve. “They still go to counselling every now and then, but it’s more of a-a check-up for them. I-Dave and I had sessions with a bereavement therapist-and it’s still-you know, when we need it. It’s there. I actually found that much more helpful than Dave did, I think Dave-he wanted to concentrate on looking after all of us. And Florence-“

Geordie’s voice is cautious, careful. “Florence was born after-“

“After Ivan died, yeah.” Sam pulls another tissue from the box. “But she-the strange thing is, she talks about him all the time, she’ll-she’ll point at photos and say he’s her brother, she-she very much feels like she knew him, even though she-she obviously didn’t. She-“ She laughs, the sound half-cracking. “When we go to visit his grave, which we do every week, every weekend, in Oxfordshire, she’ll give-er-she’ll give the gravestone a hug, and she’ll say hello to Ive, and give it a hug for him, and-she just takes it all at face value, because she’s never known anything else.”

Geordie’s arm is still around her. From the kitchen, Sam can hear Craig breathing, the noise long and shuddering, catching slightly in his chest.

“It’s been six years,” Geordie says, softly. “I think-since you lost him?”

“Yeah.” Sam scrubs under her eyes with the tissue. “Six years this February.”

“Does it ever ease?”

The question could sound stupid. But it’s spoken softly, simply, almost like a child might ask, “Will it hurt?”

Sam takes a deep breath, crumples the tissue between her palms. “Sometimes at night, I’ll wake up,” she says, quietly. “Because one of the kids-one of them’s had a bad dream or because I’ve had a dream-and I wake up, and there’s a moment when you wake up when you don’t remember everything. But there’s-when I wake up, there’s a moment when I think I hear the little-cry he used to give when he wanted to be picked up or just a little-moan in his throat. And you just-you hear it, and sometimes I’m half-getting out of bed to go and see if he’s all right, and I’m thinking that I need to check his dosages again or wondering if there’s a problem with his feeding tube. And then you’ll just be half-out of bed, and you’ll hear the house settling or just sense them there, breathing, knowing they’re near-and I’ll think that he’s round the next corner, and that I’m just on my way to see him, and-if you just turn the corner fast enough, you’ll see him. And I’ll think, I’ve found you. And then you start to wake up, and you’ll remember halfway out the door or in the hallway, even before you’ve really realised where you are. And you’ll remember.” Her voice cracks. “It’s not him. It’s never him.”

Geordie hugs her, then. He does it unexpectedly, and oddly awkwardly, as though he’s not accustomed to it, and seems as surprised as Sam would feel under other circumstances, but he hugs her, half-pulling her against his shoulder. Sam pats his back, and lets him.

She hears a noise in the doorway, and looks up at Craig. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway now, but as he’s watching her, his eyes close, as though even looking at them hurts.

“Craig.” Sam says his name softly, the word waterlogged in her throat. Craig opens his eyes and meets her gaze, both of them noticing the other’s eyes are as wet as their own. It takes a moment before Craig crosses to the sofa and sits down next to her. He doesn’t put his arm round her, but he takes her arm, lowers his own head for a moment.

When Geordie looks up at her, his eyes wet, Sam manages a laugh, and says, “Shall I grab the tissues for you-“

Geordie holds up a hand, reaches for the box himself. “Sorry-“

Craig takes one, scrubbing his hand roughly across his eyes.

“It takes a long time,” Sam says, answering the question people are scared to ask. “It takes a long time before you see any-any sunlight poking through this-dark fog of wanting him and reaching for him-but it-“ She wipes under her eyes. “Never does-and you wouldn’t want it to, ever, because-because-never does the pain go, as-as it’s so connected to the love.”

Geordie doesn’t say there aren’t any more questions. He reaches out, and flicks off the tape recorder that all of them had long forgotten about. The three of them sit there, in silence, catching their breath.

“Thank you,” says one of them, and the other says “I’m sorry,” and Sam will never be sure which of them is which. She just looks across the room, up at the photograph, meeting her baby’s gaze, watching Ivan smile back at her.

* * *

“Well,” Nick says, glancing up at David across from him. “That’s it.”

David nods, nearly laughs. “Yes.”

They both refrain from glancing back at the door, from waiting for Danny to walk through.

“Was it-“ David shrugs. “I mean, if we end up back in coalition-“

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Nick shrugs. “You know, I’m proud of what we’ve done in government-we are basically leaving the country in good order, given what we inherited.” Nick shrugs, wincing slightly-David can tell he’s trying not to reach round to rub his back. “I mean, I somehow didn’t feel emotional at Cabinet today, but I know that we’ve done the right thing for the country, or as much as we can-“

“With the last coalition?” It could almost be a joke, but David meets Nick’s gaze. “Or the next one?”

Nick manages to raise an eyebrow but the question hangs in the air a little too long.

“Well, we’ve delivered a five-year coalition,” Nick says, after what seems longer than it should. “Something that many people said was impossible. I mean-“ He manages to laugh. “God knows if we’ll be rewarded by the electorate, but I think we deserve to be-“

David glances down. “If there isn’t another coalition?” he asks, too lightly.

Nick matches his tone. “I mean, I’m sure-I’m not going to miss most of the Tories, but there are some that I-you know, that I really like, and might stay in touch with-“

“Like who?”

Nick shrugs. “Osborne? Funnily enough-“

David holds his gaze for a moment, then looks away, their conversation of a few weeks before rising to his cheeks in a flush.

“In spite of our rows, but-“ Nick tilts his head. “I could see us staying in touch.”

David waits before he says, “And Cameron?”

_“Well-“ Nick had clapped his hands almost before David walked through the door. “That’s it, then.”_

_“And how was the last bilateral?” David had kept his tone light, taking his cue from Nick. It needed to be._

_“It was good, it was-given-given the situation we were in five years ago, I think we both have come out of it-less-less badly than we could have done.” Nick had leant against his desk, then pushed himself up, walking back and forth. “I mean, it’s obvious that his mind is turning to another coalition, and-“_

_“He said that?”_

_“Well, he said to me that we should keep our options open for after 8 May, so-“ Nick had lifted his shoulders in a shrug._

_David hadn’t really needed to ask. “And-it’s a pretty strong possibility.”_

_Nick had made his way over to the window then, head tilted back against the winter sunlight. “I think I know Cameron pretty well by now,” he’d said slowly. “His strengths and his weaknesses.”_

_David had waited._

_“I mean-despite everything-“ Nick’s words had tripped slightly over a laugh. “I find him good fun and-you know, he’s easy to work with. And he is-“ He turns away from the window suddenly, catching the corner of his lip between his teeth. “He is often at his best when he is really under pressure,” he’d said slowly. “He has a fast, quick-quicksilver mind.”_

“David Cameron?” Nick says now, thoughtfully, as though it’s really a question.

David regards him with some amusement. “Yes,” he says, just as lightly. “David Cameron.”

Nick pauses for a second too long. “I guess,” he says, slowly. “After all, we’ve been through quite a lot together.”

David nods. “And more together,” he adds, waiting until Nick glances up at him sharply before he adds, “Potentially.”

“Yeah-“ Nick looks away, then back. “We’d have to extract some considerable concessions if we were to do another coalition.”

“I know.”

“We might even have to push for Chancellor.”

“He’d never move Osborne.”

“I know. I said push for it. Even just asking for it shows that we’re serious about it.” Nick meets his gaze. “It has to be different this time if it’s another coalition”, and that answers David’s question without him needing to ask it.

_“But-I mean, he has his flaws,” Nick had said, a little too quickly, though David hadn’t asked. “I’ve become-you know, for every Syria or Libya, there’s things like-I’ve become more-disenchanted by his carelessness over issues-you know, such as Scotland and the Union. I mean, the whole referendum was-“_

_“Wasn’t something we really needed to go through, yeah.”_

_“His-it’s similar to his judgements on policy, it’s-there’s sometimes this last-minute-get people off my back, thing. They’re swift, they’re not always very well thought-through-even if they-so far, they’ve mostly come off for him, but whether they always-but so far-“ Nick had shaken his head. “But my God-“ He’d almost laughed. “He has a classical nose for political survival, Cameron. He-when his back’s up against the wall, he ducks and he weaves. His gambles usually pay off. Perhaps that’s why he always believes he can get himself out of a tight corner.”_

_The words had been said with a laugh, but they had fallen into the room with a little more weight. David had looked up slowly, to find Nick’s gaze resting on him. The words had hovered between them, with something else, too, a faint warning note ringing in the aftermath._

_Nick hadn’t looked away from them, and though his tone had been light as he spoke, his mouth hadn’t quite made its’ way into a smile. “One day, he won’t.”_

* * *

“It’s just-Keynes Society thing, I think, if it hasn’t been cancelled-“

“Do you know who’s speaking?”

“Er, I haven’t actually checked-“ Jasper’s voice is smooth, polished, delightfully unruffled-the voice of someone who’s never had to worry for a day in his life. Geordie is suddenly almost unbearably grateful for it.

“You OK, Dad?” He can picture the crease in his son’s forehead with painful ease, the slight tilt of his head. One hand in his pocket, his Eton tailcoat somehow slightly rumpled, giving him the dishevelled look him and his friends seem to delight in. Geordie closes his eyes, lets himself savour the familiar tinge of exasperation mixed with the now familiar ache of love, like a pleasant bruise in his chest.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, and he manages to laugh. “Just-phoned the girls, and thought I’d check on you too.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Monica or Octavia might have pushed a little more. But Jasper’s able to shrug them both into an account of some incident on the rowing lake, and Geordie closes his eyes and listens to his son’s voice, and tries not to imagine what it would be like if this would be the last time he heard it.

* * *

“Daddy.” Honor’s voice is small and fragile in his ear, struggling into wakefulness. “Daddy-“

“Shhh. Shhh, it’s OK-“ Craig manages to hoist a smile into his own voice. “Mummy just let, Mummy just knew I wanted to say goodnight-“

“Did you speak to Maya and Io-“ He pictures Honor’s little mouth stretching wide in a tiny yawn, her little arms stretching above her head, the warm weight of her on his hip as he’d carry her, murmuring in her ear to get her to nod into sleep against his shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart.” Iona will manage calls now, even if she carefully avoids any mention of the divorce, steering her way through anecdotes of her everyday, picking her way around words that could hurt, letting her father know she expects him to do the same. Maya’s door had been closed when Joanna took the phone up to her.

“Why did you need-“ Honor yawns and Craig’s seized with the yearning to have the bundle of her cuddled into her lap. “I’m tired.”

“That’s OK.” He closes his eyes, soaks in the warm breath of her voice. “I just wanted to say goodnight to you, darling.”

Each little breath suddenly seems almost unbearably precious. Craig presses the phone to his ear, imagines the snug press of her little hand into his.

“I love you, Daddy.” The words, half-blurred with childish sleep, close his eyes, ache in the back of his throat.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So, so much.” Apologies and hugs that haven’t been wrapped around her are tangled together in his chest, but he holds them there, not selfish enough to unburden them onto Honor, almost lost in her dreams.

“Night, night, Daddy. I love you.”

Craig closes his eyes, thinks of her steady, even little breaths, carrying her through her child’s dreams in the night safely into the morning, her little eyes that will open with the sunlight, the soft drumbeat of her heart against as his own, as she lay nuzzled into his chest, on and on.

His voice almost cracks, but not quite, a warm whisper to send her into her dreams. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

* * *

They sit together quietly, Samantha’s head on his shoulder. David listens to her breathing, holds her to him, the silence heavy around them with words he almost starts to say each time, but never quite does.

“When Oli was born-“ Sam shakes her head, and her fingers tighten around his. David stays quiet, and tells himself it’s just to let her speak.

“When Oli was born, we went-we went to visit him.” Sam moves, sitting further up next to him, and leaning her forehead on her hand. “We went to visit him, at Tania and Carl’s, and I remember holding him, and I remember-I remember his little hand opening and closing when I was holding him, and I remember just-adjusting the way I was holding him because I was ready for him to start, to start, just, um-“ She shakes her head, and David closes his eyes, even as his arms wrap around her automatically, rearing back from it, from the fact he’s unearthed this.

“I was ready for him to-and then he just sort of-slept peacefully, very peacefully, and I just remember-looking down at him and hating-“ The word escapes in a sort of sobbing breath.

David presses his face into her hair, breathing her in, keeping his eyes closed. He mouths silent apologies into her hair, even as Sam leans back against him, uses his sleeve to scrub at her eyes.

“-I wake up and I think he’s there, every time I think he’s there, and it never stops, it-“ Her voice cracks. “It never stops, it-“

David presses his forehead against her hair, knows she can feel his grip on her arms tightening. She turns round, her head half-pressing into his.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to Sam or Ive or himself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Dave-“ Sam says his name quietly, rests their foreheads together. “It’s OK.”

She waits until he opens his eyes, lets their gazes meet again, and then says it again. “It’s OK.” She holds his gaze, lets the words sink in.

“I-“

Sam touches his mouth, and there’s something almost painfully soft in her eyes. “No one knows it but us,” she says, simply, belying the weight of the words.

There are so many things to say but when David opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Sam’s forehead presses against his mouth. He presses himself to her, losing himself in the touch of her hair, holding onto her, half-in his lap, half-wrapped around him.

“I’m not.” The words are only half-formed and David could almost have missed them, but they’re there.

They sit there, and neither of them lets themselves imagine waiting long enough, hearing a gurgle, maybe a little cry. Neither of them say anything. They just sit there, for a while, until it becomes time to go to bed, before they check on each of their other children, touching soft cheeks and pressing kisses to their warm little foreheads, under Ivan’s gaze from a picture, smile dimpling his cheeks above the words threaded through and murmured into all of their children’s ears, _The monster’s gone/He’s on the run/And your daddy’s here._

* * *

_ Playlist _

_ Gold Rush-Taylor Swift _ _-“But I don’t like a gold rush, gold rush/I don’t like anticipating my face in a red flush/I don’t like that anyone would die to feel your touch/Everybody wants you/Everybody wonders what it would be like to love you/Walk past, quick brush/I don’t like slow motion, double vision in a rose blush/I don’t like that falling feels like flying ‘till the bone crush/Everybody wants you/But I don’t like a gold rush/What must it be like/To grow up that beautiful?/With your hair falling into place like dominoes…At dinner parties/I call you out on your contrarian shit”_

_ My Favorite Accident-Motion City Soundtrack _ _-“Just when I thought I had forgotten/You came back soft without a sound/You said we were an accident/With accidents you never know what could have been/So we were an accident/You’ll always be my favorite one/You hit the road and left me an ocean/I can’t swim in the silence of your skin, skin, please let me in!/Side the times we never had right/Inside two years alone with you/You said we were an accident/With accidents you never know what could have been/So we were an accident/You’ll always be my favorite one…Long winded promises of future company/Up close the sound remains the same/Without the reign of terror every momentary change/We are exactly as before”_

_ Art Smock-The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart-“ _ _I want to know what happened to you/I liked you better in your art smock, mocking art rock/Without intention, without design/You said you’d never be fine with being fine, or mine/So we went out to see your favorite band/Left when we saw they were bone and skin and 77/And I wanted to be something like you/And nothing like them/What you wanted I never knew/I was a mess but so were you/I should have guessed it was gonna fall/To pieces in my hands again/I’m broken where I stand again/I never learn this lesson right/But I want you here…You learned to mingle with a well-bred crowd/Straightened your hair and forgot all about/Torn jeans and sweaters from the lost-and-found/Dropped some pounds and the people that you used to hang around/What you wanted I never knew/I was a mess but you turned so cruel…I never learn this lesson right/When I spent the night it just felt wrong/Like a Felt song, I’m off the throne/And I need you now, and you’re not around”_

_ This Woman’s Work-Kate Bush _ _-“I know you’ve got a little life in you yet/I know you’ve got a lot of strength left/I know you’ve got a little life in you yet/I know you’ve got a lot of strength left/I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show/I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking/Of all the things I should’ve said/That I never said/All the things we should’ve done/That we never did/All the things I should’ve given/But I didn’t/Oh darling, make it go away/Give me these moments back/Give them back to me/Give me that little kiss/Give me your hand/I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show/I should be hoping but I can’t stop thinking/Of all the things I should’ve said/That I never/All the things we should’ve done/That we never did/All the things that you needed from me/All the things that you wanted for me/All the things I should’ve given/But I didn’t/Oh darling, make it go away/Just make it go away now”_

_ Set Fire To The Third Bar-Snow Patrol _ _-“Their words mostly noises/Ghosts with just voices/Your words in my memory/Are like music to me/I’m miles from where you are/I lay down on the cold ground/And I pray that something picks me up/And sets me down in your warm arms/After I have travelled so far/We’d set the fire to the third bar/We’d share each other like an island/Until exhausted, close our eyelids/And dreaming, pick up from/The last place we left off/Your soft skin is weeping/A joy you can’t keep in”_

_ Ether-We Are All Astronauts (Instrumental) _

_ Supercut-Lorde _ _-“In my head I play a supercut of us/All the magic we gave off/All the love we had and lost/And in my head, the visions never stop/These ribbons wrap me off/But when I reach for you, there’s just a supercut…So I fall into continents and cars//All the stages and the stars/I turn all of it into just a supercut…In your car, the radio up, in your car, the radio up/We keep trying to talk about us/Slow motion, I’m watching our love/I’ll be your quiet afternoon crush/Be your violet overnight rush/Make you crazy over my touch/But it’s just a supercut of us, supercut of us/Oh, it’s just a supercut of us…’Cause in my head (in my head, I do everything right)/(When you call I’ll forgive and not fight)/Because ours (are the moments I play in the dark)/We were wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart”_

_ Happiness-Taylor Swift _ _-“Showed you all of my hiding spots/I was dancing when the music stopped/And in the disbelief/I can’t face reinvention/I haven’t met the new me yet/There’ll be happiness after you/But there was happiness because of you/Both of these things can be true/There is happiness/Past the blood and bruise/Past the curses and cries/Beyond the terror in the nightfall/Haunted by the look in my eyes/That would’ve loved you for a lifetime…Honey, when I’m above the trees/I see it for what it is/But now my eyes leak acid rain/On the pillow where you used to lay your head/After giving you the best I had/Tell me what to give after that….There’ll be happiness after you/But there was happiness because of you too/Both of these things can be true/There is happiness in our history….Leave it all behind/And there is happiness”_

_ I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)-Sleeping At Last _ _-“And when I come home, yeah, I know I’m gonna be/I’m gonna be the man who’s coming home to you/And when I’m dreaming, well, I know I’m gonna dream/I’m gonna dream about the time that I’m with you/But I would walk 500 miles/And I would walk 500 more…When I’m working, yeah I know I’m gonna be/I’m gonna be the man who’s working hard for you/And when the money comes in for the work I do/I’ll pass along every cent of it to you…When I wake up, well I hope I’m gonna be/I’m gonna be the man who’s waking up to you/And when I’m dreaming, well I know I’m gonna dream/I’m gonna dream about the time I had with you”_

_ Beautiful Boy-John Lennon _ _-“Close your eyes/Have no fear/The monster’s gone/He’s on the run/And your daddy’s here….Before you go to sleep/Say a little prayer/Every day/In every way/It’s getting better and better/Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy/Darling, darling, darling, darling boy”_

* * *

**(Children in Downing Street)**

_And one of the greatest advantages of the set-up was having my closest colleague living next door. The Osbornes started off staying at their home in Notting Hill, but in August 2011 they decided to move into the No. 10 flat. Not only were George and I good friends, but Samantha and Frances were close, and our children became close too. Nancy and Liberty Osborne (my goddaughter) would take it in turns to make unbelievable messes in either of our kitchens through their cooking experiments. And Elwen (George’s godson) and Luke Osborne would play various sports in the garden. On Monday nights they would have art classes together, something we have continued with since we all left Downing Street._

_Did the dads argue? Often, but never with anger. Together, we found Downing Street a happy place to live and work. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Downing Street. A strange row of a few tall, mismatched townhouses, cowering in the shadow of the mighty Foreign Office. A little figure pops out of the shiny black door and sails down the road on a lilac-coloured scooter._

**_“Hello, Flo,_ ** _” beams the first police officer she passes, his finger on the trigger of a machine gun. His colleague opens the iron pedestrian gate and the pink figure glides through,, passing a photographer who is snapping away. As she weaves through the tourists on Whitehall, her knackered dad, clutching a baby doll and a little glittery bag, accompanied by a plain-clothes protection officer, tries to keep up with her, before they cross the road and disappear into a side entrance of the House of Commons._

_This is Florence Cameron on her daily journey to nursery, and this is the only world she has ever known…._

_Of course, for the children there was no distinction between what were home areas and what were work areas. It was all theirs. It was one giant labyrinth to explore, and they loved it. They’d climb across the green baize of the cabinet table and jump onto the chair used by Churchill, only half aware that they were here because Daddy was doing the same job as him. I say half aware, because they were more interested in the fact that there were Fox’s Glacier Mints in little bowls on the table. **“Daddy, your office has sweets!”** I recall Elwen declaring. I remember seeing the chief of the defence staff coming through the front door in full-dress uniform, decked out in medals, to be confronted by Florence, sitting on the black-and-white chequered floor of the hallway, asking him, **“What are you doing in my house?”**_

_She came to know people in the building well. She knew which desk she could expect a Polo mint, an apple, or part of a bar of chocolate from. She truly was a daughter of Downing Street. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_No. 10 is the heart of the UK government, but it is also a home. And it was my goddaughter Florence Cameron’s first home….She was Queen of No. 10 for the time she inhabited it and possibly loves it more than any of us. When the moment comes to leave in 2016, she tries to attach herself to the railings. We are supposed to make a dignified exit, Samantha explains. **“But I don’t want to go,”** says Florence._

_Florence’s popularity grew with her mobility. Her first fans are the custodians, policemen and gardeners, who admire her daily trips to St. James’s Park, where she is pushed in her pram by Gita, her devoted nanny. It seemed hardly any time before she is propelling herself with speed and dexterity around the carpeted corridors of No. 10 on a pink scooter with matching helmet, visiting her favourite members of staff (noticeably, those who had sweets.) -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Finally I walked down the long hallway from the back of the building to the front door. I was clapped out, just as I’d been clapped in. Just before we reached the door Liz stopped me, Sam and the children in the hallway, having learned from Thatcher’s departure that tipping a Pm straight out into the street after they’ve said goodbye to the staff is a recipe for tears. It was her final act of logistical and emotional genius, and it gave me just the right amount of time to gather myself._

_I stepped into the street and spoke from the lectern. Florence stood coyly with her head poked between her mum and her sister. She had been nonchalantly talking about moving **“back to the old house,”** even though she’d never actually been there. **“They sometimes like to kick the red boxes full of work,”** I said, as I paid tribute to the children. **“Florence, you once climbed into one before a foreign trip and said “Take me with you.””** I looked at her and she started beaming. **“Well, no more boxes.”** Then, my last words in office. **“It has been the greatest honour of my life, to serve our country as prime minister over these last six years and to serve as leader of my party for almost eleven years, and as we leave for the last time, my only wish is continued success for this great country that I love so very much. Thank you.”**_

_With that I turned to my team, who were assembled outside the front of No. 11, and gave them a wave. As they headed to a pub on Trafalgar Square, I’d be at the other end of The Mall, seeing the Queen. After our conversation she invited Sam and the children in. We were worried about them bowing and curtseying properly, but they behaved impeccably. I was so proud of them all that day._

_The **“old house”** wouldn’t be ready for us to move back into for some time, as it was rented out, so we ended up staying at my friend Alan Parker’s house for a few nights before we found longer-term digs. It was an odd first evening rattling around in a strange place, rooting for the remote control. It was quiet, too. No duty clerks. No Liz. No red boxes. As I tucked Florence in she asked, **“Daddy, when are we going back home?”** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Later, Dave texts H (Hugo Swire): **Sam will kill you if you back Gove. As Nancy would say, “just saying.” Loved the weekend.** -“Thursday 30th June 2016”, Diary Of An MP’s Wife: Inside And Outside Power, Sasha Swire_

* * *

**(Kate)**

_My journey to work has another benefit. At 7.30 a.m. every day, Rupert Harrison, George’s right-hand man, and I meet at our favourite coffee place and I drive us both into work. We have been travelling in together for nearly four years now, dropping my son off at school on the way. The Today programme is in in the background as we cover whatever school or work issues arise. For example, my son’s choice of poem for school poetry recital competition._

_This is in 2014, the anniversary of the start of the First World War. It’s got to be “Dulce et Decorum Est”, says Rupert. And the (ultimately) prize-winning poem is duly rehearsed for weeks from the back of the car. We joke to David and George that their bilaterals are nothing as compared to the issues we resolve in this half-hour every day. There is a lot of truth to this._

_I miss our journeys to work in my final year, once Rupert has departed for a new career in finance. But I gain the bonus of having my daughter for company-when she can propel herself out of bed in time-after she moves to a new school in Westminster. On the rare occasion the 8.30 meeting is cancelled, we sit with our coffees at a café we have discovered in St James’s Park, looking at the child-sized pink pelicans perched on a rock in the lake, discussing the challenges of the day ahead. Sometimes she comes to No. 10 after school, setting out her homework on an empty desk, so that we can drive home together when I am finished._

_My daughter also helps me with the less important but nevertheless anxiety-inducing question about what to wear every day. Quite apart from being photographed on the way in, there is the sense of every day being special when you work at No. 10. Here is where the men have the advantage. Deciding which suit, shirt and tie to put on each morning is easy compared with the complications of a woman’s wardrobe. It’s a long day. You’ve got to wear something that will work from morning to night. I opt for dresses, as they can be dressed down with cardigans and are still fine for the evening without. Nothing risqué, but nothing too corporate either. Nothing too tight or too tiring. Mum wears party dresses to work, is my daughter’s take on my “style”, if it deserves such a word. She makes signs for my hangers, Monday to Friday. We pick the dresses out on Sunday night-her advising me from the bed-so that, first thing each weekday morning, I don’t have to think.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_It is foolhardy to leave the table at such times-a lesson I learn the hard way one year when I get up to take a quick call, returning to find the father of one of my son’s friends at school had been fired. **“You can’t do that,”** I say, **“I’ll never be able to appear at the school gate again.”** We can’t organise the reshuffle around Kate’s son, they say. Of course, they make a good point. More seriously, I ask, **“Why does he have to go?”** He’s a good guy and popular with his colleagues. The answer is simply that the numbers don’t add up. There is a strict limit on the number of ministerial posts. You can arrange the chairs a thousand times, but if you are over your number, someone will have to go-and it can be just bad luck._

_Later, when the deed is done, I wonder what is the right thing to do. To say nothing, when I know the man and his family, is uncourageous. But I can’t blame it on the others. I send my sympathies to the mother in a carefully worded text that she then tweets to all and sundry. Then I have to explain the situation to my young son. -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_I want my daughter to learn to stand her ground. This really matters. There’s no denying that it is tough-women often feel intimidated by male-dominated environments, not just in politics but in many walks of life. There is a latent sense that a man’s view carries greater weight. Women can be put off from speaking their minds, and often don’t go for jobs which pay you for what you “think”, opting instead for being paid for “doing things”-when they could easily do either. In politics, this often translates to falling into ops, leaving men to do policy. It also, I suspect, puts off some women from getting into frontline politics. That men thrive in these environments is a factor in keeping women from this sort of work as well. Mostly, it is not intentional-but sometimes it is. Luckily, David surrounds himself with strong women-including his wife. And we have one another-Gabby, Isabel, Liz, speechwriters Clare Foges and Jessica Cunniffe, diary secretary Lara Moreno-Perez, Kate Marley, Georgina Graham, and also Simone Finn, Kate Shouesmith, Laura Wylde and Kate Rock, to name a few-for support, when the going gets tough.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_We have ten days until the first “debate” and have done nothing to prepare. **“Help”** I say to Bill Knapp, currently sitting in Washington, DC. He jumps on a plane and I clear David’s diary. We need lots of time and are fast running out of it. Nothing more brings home to me the reality of the election being upon us than Bill walking through the door of No. 10. **“Here we all are again”** he says, smiling. We get straight down to work, bringing Bill up to speed with the issues; where our weaknesses are, and where are our opponents’. But it really comes down to an assessment of what this election is all about-and what we would like it to be about, which are not always the same thing._

**_“You can’t still be talking about austerity”_ ** _he says, incredulously. He is a Democrat, after all, and they prefer to throw money at problems. **“I know it worked for you last time, but are you sure you guys want a rerun?”** It’s not exactly a rerun, Craig and I explain, our message is more, We have a plan and it’s working…Don’t ruin what we’ve worked so hard together to achieve. **“OK”** he says with that American slant that suggests otherwise, **“what’s your top line?”** Eager Adam Atashzai, from the political team answers, **“That’s simple: it’s LTEP.” “Which is what, exactly, in English?”** asks Bill, looking mystified. **“Or American?” “The Long-Term Economic Plan,”** Adam chants. **“OK,”** Bill says again, though this time he is silent for a while. **“That trips off the tongue….”**_

_Bill’s point is two-fold. One, you cannot run a second election on austerity. It must be austerity plus hope; austerity for a reason-to create a country that is safe and secure because we live within our means. Two, the Long-Term Economic Plan must be translated into **“real talk.”** Real talk means explaining what the plan will mean for normal people, in language they understand. It’s not about lower unemployment, it’s about more jobs for families. It’s not about debt and deficit, but about not going on a spending spree you can’t afford and then leaving your overdraft to your kids. We go through our arguments, phrase by phrase, translating LTEP into real talk. We also need to talk about our record. We have had five years in government. We have lots of positive things to say about what we have done. We are now one of the fastest-growing economies in the Western world creating record numbers of jobs. But as the incumbents, we also have our fair share of vulnerabilities. Running the country requires making tough decisions.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_It’s time for our first rehearsal. Bill is unyielding: we must again role play; reciting lines to the shaving mirror is not good enough. Bill wants to start with the most difficult-the party leaders’ debate-which means there are a lot of people to cast (not an unenjoyable task.) Craig and I sidle up to Oliver Dowden, who has been avoiding us all day. **“I know you’re going to ask me to play Farage”** he says and sighs. **You guessed right** , we say. Farage, we know, will be the most difficult. He loves to play to the gallery and likes to take risks. He will be toughest on immigration. Olive accepts-on one condition: that it does not leak. He is fighting his first election as an MP. Of course, the whole thing appears in the weekend papers. Our arch-feminist, punchy researcher Meg Powell-Chandler is cast as Natalie Bennett, leader of the Green Party. Laura Trott from the Policy Unit has perfected her Welsh accent and takes on Leanne Wood of Plaid Cymru. Our Scottish expert Andrew Dunlop bravely agrees to be Nicola Sturgeon. Rupert is Ed Miliband-because only he can fathom his economic policy. And by popular demand, Jeremy Hunt returns as Nick Clegg. Former “X Factor” debate victor Nick Clegg is now one of the most unpopular politicians in the country-a bit unfairly, I think._

_We set up the seven podiums in the rehearsal room. We work out there will only be time for five questions max, given the number of people. Our guess is there will be one each on the economy, immigration, security and public services-health or schools. Plus, one more on something like climate change or equality issues.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_n the rehearsal, everyone is talking over everyone else. It feels like chaos; it will be chaos. The women are strident and ganging up against the men. **“Don’t patronise us!”** Meg screeches, finger wagging. **“We all know David Cameron can’t handle women** ” Laura says, flicking her hair. Andrew jumps on the bandwagon on behalf of Nicola. **“Oh, put a wig on”** says Olive, on behalf of Farage. It is getting out of hand._

_David just stands there, watching in horror. But out of the carnage comes a valuable lesson. He will be facing a very formidable group of women. Since his infamous “Calm down, dear” in the Commons, he has been perceived to have a “woman” problem. So, his demeanour will be particularly important. He must at all costs avoid any Flashman-style put-downs._

**_“Can I go now?”_ ** _asks David._

**_“Here’s the thing,”_ ** _says Bill. **“You’re gonna have to stay for the full two hours.”** David looks at the scene and sighs.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_I’ve known George a long time-since my first job in the Conservative Research Department, in fact. The dream of every desk officer was to be a special advisor to a Cabinet minister. I asked around about how this could be done. You need to nurture a friendship with an MP “going up”, I was told. Otherwise, just send in your CV when there’s a reshuffle and hope for the best. When William Waldegrave was replaced by Douglas Hogg at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food in 1995, I wondered if it might be my opportunity. Admittedly, having grown up in cities, I didn’t know much about farming. But, as the desk officer covering the brief for Europe, my remit included agriculture and animals so I was certainly learning, and I reckoned I should be in with a chance. I had decided to try the idea out on the boy in the office next to mine. George was highly regarded in CRD as the prestigious head of “political section”, a job which had until recently been inhabited by another talented young man called David Cameron. **“I am thinking about applying to be a special advisor to Douglas Hogg,”** I said. **“Do you think it is a crazy idea, given that, you know, farming is not exactly my thing?”**_

**_“No-it’s a very good idea,”_ ** _he said. “ **There’s just one hitch.”**_

**_“What’s that?”_ ** _I asked._

**_“I’ve already got the job.”_ ** _ -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall _

_The government was under siege. I was working at the Conservative Research Department at this time, with the responsibility for the European brief as well as agriculture and animals. In my mostly urban life I had hitherto barely encountered a cow, and yet found myself at the centre of a department in meltdown over meat exports. An emergency meat debate was called in the Commons and it was my job to write the brief for the MPs. I rang George: what on earth should I write? The problem, he said, was that there was no agreed policy-yet. But he promised to come round with the details as soon as they emerged from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, where he was a special advisor to Douglas Hogg. It was late that evening when he finally appeared, sheet of paper in hand (this was pre-email). The phone on my desk was ringing non-stop with calls from the public-mostly farmers, screaming at me over the government’s handling of the crisis. I wrote my brief while George fended off the calls, and delivered it to the whips’ office just in time. -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Now we need to find a replacement (for Andy Coulson). We are wary of looking into the newspapers again. It is Nick Robinson’s idea that we meet the editor of the BBC News At Ten-a guy called Craig Oliver who he rates highly. It is difficult for Craig in the beginning. We are a close team and we have just lost someone we like a lot and trust. Craig is accepted as a professional colleague, but everyone is a little wary of a more emotional connection. Craig senses he has a lot to prove…Andy looks precariously isolated-although he does have loyal friends, who stand by him the whole way through. I am not alone in being one of these. I take a dim view of people who drop friends when they fall on bad times. Months go by, and then on 8 July (2011) I wake to hear on the radio that Andy Coulson has been taken into custody in the early hours. My children are in a state, thinking of his young boys who they have played with. **“Will Andy go to jail?”** I am upset. I make my way into work. Craig reads out the morning media summary. **“Andy Coulson was arrested this morning.”** People look down at their feet. I catch David’s eye. He too is upset. He is also worried. Miliband is in full war cry and we need to work out what to do. There is enormous pressure for David to apologise but he is careful to avoid this. After all, Andy is an innocent man, awaiting trial. For the Commons statement, we pick his words carefully. **”If it turns out that I have been lied to, that would be the moment for a profound apology.”…**_ _Way further down the road, in summer 2014, the phone-hacking trial finally begins. Seven years after we hired Andy. Until this moment we feel we have never wavered in our support of Andy, despite the huge pressures to do so. Everyone knows and believes that a man is innocent until proved guilty; we will stand firmly behind that tradition. If it turns out we were wrong, David will make a full apology._

_We are sitting with a group of officials when the news comes through-Andy has been found guilty of conspiracy to hack phones. There is a silence. David continues with his meeting, professional to a tee. As soon as I can, I send everyone away. I have texted George to come. We shut the door behind us and sit in silence. We feel incredibly sad. It is horrible to think a close colleague, a friend, is actually going to jail. We think of Eloise (Coulson) and their three boys. We know the time has now come for us to shift our ground and say sorry. Any minute now Craig will be knocking on the door. But we just want a moment in privacy, to reflect._

_Craig arrives; he wants David to make a statement immediately. But there is an issue around whether this is appropriate given the jury is not yet out on the other charges against Andy. We take soundings, including from the Attorney General. The overwhelming view is that the judgement has been passed on phone-hacking, and the world and his dog are out there commenting on it. Had the judge wanted to keep things closed, he would have waited and given all the convictions together. By not saying anything, it looks like we are dragging our feet, yet again. David goes out to make a full and frank apology. **“I am extremely sorry that I employed him. It was the wrong decision.”** An hour later, the judge hammers David for his intervention, and worst of all, suspends the rest of the trial. We are completely mortified._

_In the end, Leveson reports. Rebekah (Brooks) is found innocent. The press remains self-regulated. A Sunday paper is closed. Lots of people lose their jobs. Rebekah resigns. The Murdoch empire remains. Rebekah is rehired. A new Sunday paper is born. And what has actually changed? One man is sent to jail while another’s reputation takes a good kicking for hiring him in the first place, and then standing by him. And, allegedly, for showing a lack of judgement, that cardinal political sin._

_No matter how much we valued and liked Andy-which we all did-it had been a risk for him to join the team, especially when we went into Downing Street. A risk that hadn’t paid off. Especially for him.- The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

* * *

**(David and Sam)**

_Cameron later described the coupling of a **“cool art student”** and a **“stiff”** special adviser as **“weird,”** but that he (peaceably) **“beat her into submission…I wore her down.”** Back in London, they went on their first date at Kensington Palace restaurant before the art student headed back to her earthier existence in Bristol. Sometimes she would come for weekends in London, at other times he would go down to her flat in one of the rougher parts of Bristol. If she had difficulty with this bifurcated lifestyle, he must have found it even harder, not least when having to jam coins into the student digs payphone when speaking to the Chancellor. He was regarded in Westminster as some-one with a really top-rank career ahead of him. His weeks were spent in the highest quarters of government. But in Bristol, he was a nobody or even less (although he was the first of Samantha’s boyfriends to have a car, an elderly BMW, or even to invite her out to dinner.) **“Sam’s friends were unimpressed by the Tory Boy,”** says (Dominic) Loehnis. **“There were lots of Tories saying, “Ooh look, a rising star,” but Sam’s friends just didn’t think what he did was very cool. Some of us gave him a hard time about politics, but he just hadn’t had that exposure to attack from people who thought it absurd to be a Tory.”** On one occasion Cameron went, out in the car and got lost trying to find his way back to Samantha’s flat. He wound down his window to ask directions. **“It was a prostitute,”** he recalled later, a little abashed…. **”She wasn’t in the mould of his girlfriends at all,”** says James Fergusson. **“She was an art student, “hey man” type, but he saw the toughness in her very quickly. She is terrific and was not a natural politician’s wife, but she has adapted to it so much,”** to the extent of defying the sneers from some in her family who, finding him earnest, referred to him as **“Boring Dave”…** One friend called Samantha **“a hippy at heart”.** -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Back from a stay with the Camerons in Polzeath. Always good fun. Lots of booze, high-octane activity and laughs. Sam her usual lefty self. But I’m quite relaxed about it now, even throw her **“let them eat cake”** line back at her, which she takes with good humour. But oh my God! Some of her ideas! She literally wants to prise my savings out from under my mattress and dump them in the exchequer with a ribbon top. The thought that the state is better with my money than I am is quite ludicrous. We agree not to disagree as there could be blood on the floor. Siena (Swire) asks D (David) the best question: **“Er, Dave, have you ever met Al Qaeda?”** And I find his Achilles heel when I ask him: **“Are you actually a Conservative, Dave?”** He dives into the surf, furious and flushed, to avoid confronting me, but he turns to H (Hugo Swire) at dinner later: **“How do you cope? With her? Your wife, I mean?”…** A good summer all round. Saffron (Swire) does well in her GCSEs. She is at Reading Festival when the results come through, and she rings us up. The Prime Minister answers the phone (we are staying with them in Polzeath again): **“Well done, Chardonnay, well done.”** We are both so proud of her. The morning we leave I am having breakfast with Sam and Dave, and the whole subject of Syria comes up. There has just been a terrible sarin gas attack on civilians outside Damascus, with many children killed. Sam is overwhelmed with emotion, holding back the tears. She goes on a rant about posh people at dinner parties who call it a civil war, and she says it’s not a civil war at all, it’s an act of aggression on behalf of Assad and he needs to be stopped. I ask whether she would send her son to fight. She goes silent. I say that David is in effect father of the nation, and that is the decision he has to weigh up. He dismisses this immediately by saying we have a professional army and it is their job to fight, that I cannot look at it like that. But I do look at it a little bit like that, because a) I’m a mother and all soldiers have mothers; b) it’s how the electorate see it; and c) none of this is in our interest. I know it’s not worth getting into a debate with Samantha when she is like this; it’s best to roll with it and let her expend her energy….George thinks Gove is back in the running. The Camerons look despairing, but Sam concedes even she would prefer Gove to Corbyn…...H (Hugo Swire) has dinner with Dave and Sam at their house alone as I’m in Devon. Two hacks loitering outside. Dave has just had a colonoscopy, apparently, and says he has got a sore bum. Kate (Fall) is there, and she and Samantha both look immaculately groomed and corporate, H says. Dave greets H by saying, **“I shouldn’t have you here, you’re an anti.”** Samantha says she won’t vote Tory again if it’s a hard Brexit. H looks surprised that she had ever voted Tory anyway, and she concedes that she has never been a cheerleader for the party.-“Monday 3rd September 2012-Friday 5th September 2013-Tuesday 20th February 2018-Wednesday 16th January 2019,” Diary Of An MP’s Wife: Inside And Outside _

_By the end of the trip, they were an item. In the months and years that followed, they managed to make the relationship work despite very different lifestyles. While he lived in a swanky flat in London and worked at the heart of government, she was an art student in Bristol living in downmarket student digs. When he stayed with her, he would have to **“shove coins into a payphone”** if he needed to talk to his boss. Having no particular interest in politics, she was underwhelmed by his political connections, once apparently light-heartedly instructing him to tell Norman Lamont to **“fuck off.”**..Cameron’s choice of bride is fascinating, not least because their personalities are so different. On the face of it, she is highly improbable material for the spouse of a Tory politician. She sports a tattoo on her ankle, used to be a “Goth”, and likes to holiday in Ibiza for the sunshine and clubbing scene. Her extended family is full of colourful and racy characters, from her father, a traditional Tory toff, to her exotic cross-dressing half-brother Robert, who works at the auctioneer Christie’s-not to mention various relatives with a druggie past. (Her sister Emily was kicked out of school after cannabis was found in her dormitory during a police raid.) As an art student she could be found hanging out playing snooker with a thief and alleged small-time drug dealer in downtrodden pubs, and had no interest in politics. All that was long ago, but she never entirely shook off her rebellious streak. This was never more apparent than when, aged forty-three, she became the first prime ministerial spouse in history to stage an event that could credibly be described as a “rave” at Chequers, hiring a Radio 1 DJ known as “Sarah HB” (for “Hard Bitch”) to spin discs…Exactly what cool bohemian Samantha saw in crashingly conventional “Dave” is a question that still exercises some political observers. When the couple started dating, he was fond of wearing red braces and smoking cigars, while she was more likely to be wearing a velvet jacket, gold hoop earrings, and smoking a roll-up cigarette. One Tory MP who moved in the same social circles when they were younger said: **“Those sisters (Samantha Cameron and Emily Sheffield) were very cool, very moneyed, very hip. Everybody talked about them. They were rich girls with titles and palaces who adopted Estuary accents. Dave did very well to get her.”** …Cameron was good-looking, self-assured and made Samantha laugh. She has said his sense of humour was the primary attraction when they first met. Though she could not possibly have known how far he would climb, he ticked all the conventional boxes as a good potential husband and father even if he was, in the eyes of some of her cooler friends, a little **“square.”** The fact she is not a political anorak would prove an asset: she helps keep him real.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Samantha was a friend of my younger sister Clare, and we first met when she was just seventeen. I remember being struck by this laid-back, almost silent, waif-like thing lying on my parents’ sofa, smoking rolled-up cigarettes and sniggering gently as my sister took the piss out of me. We met properly on a holiday organised by my father four years later….He allowed each of us children to invite three friends along. Samantha was invited by Clare, who warned her in advance, **“Watch out-I think my brother fancies you.”** I did. And it was a blissful week._

_I realise that what is meant to follow is a story about love at first sight. Neither of us being in any doubt. An instant recognition that we were partners for life. The truth is that neither of us felt like that. We had a lovely, romantic holiday amidst sunshine, friends, laughter and free-flowing cocktails. But when we got home neither of us was quite sure what would happen next. Of course we were similar in some ways: brought up only twenty miles apart, with parents who, while of slightly different ages, moved in similar social circles. But our friends on both sides couldn’t really understand what we were up to. I was the ambitious Tory apparatchik. She was the hippie-like art student. I was working in the Treasury for Norman Lamont. She was living in a Bristol flat with people who would have happily wrung his neck. I was trying to get invited to highbrow political dinner parties in Westminster. She was playing pool with the rapper Tricky in the trendiest part of Bristol. Norman would frequently ring up early on a Saturday morning wanting to know what was in the papers. On more than one occasion Samantha, used to a student-style lie-in, would shout from under her pillow, **“If that’s Norman asking about the newspapers, tell him to fuck off and buy them himself.”** I would call him back, cramming 20p pieces into the student payphone to avoid being cut off._

_Our courtship was a long one. Our first New Year was spent driving around Morocco in a battered Renault 5. The first night in Marrakesh was so cold and damp we slept with our clothes on. While there was a bit of an age gap, as well as the contrasts in our friends and our politics, there was something that kept bringing us together and helping us get to know and love each other more….So we fell in love-and it was the deepest love I will ever know. But the falling took months and years, not days and nights; and I suspect it was longer for Sam than it was for me. But I believe the result has been something much stronger than either of us could ever have believed when we first got together under that powerful Italian sun. And it wouldn’t just survive everything political life would throw at us, but also the worst fear of any parent, losing our beloved first-born child…Did we ever argue about politics? Yes, of course. My friends would say she helped to turn a pretty traditional Home Counties Tory boy into someone a bit more rounded, more questioning and more open-minded. -For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

**(George and Frances)**

_Return from an overnight stay at Dorneywood. H (Hugo Swire) and I mildly depressed by the frosty atmosphere between Frances and George. They barely talk to each other these days. He, as usual, holds court. In fact, between H, Kwasi (Kwarteng) and G, we women felt almost superfluous....I have a quiet word with G before dinner and find him consumed by leadership tactics. I tell him he needs to do some soft stuff, that his main problem is image, but it worries me when I see him and Frances together as a couple, as I know it won't work. There is already much speculation about the state of their marriage behind bent hands at Westminster...He is always one for context and historical precedent; it gives him a sense of security, even arrogance. The (EU) referendum is not really talked about but when he says they are renovating Dorneywood I say, **"What's the point? You'll be out of here in two months."**_

_**"Well, then I'll have done it up for Andrea Leadsom. So lucky her."** _

_We leave after breakfast, but not before G watches Boris on Andrew Marr. At one point I turn to look at G; it was like looking at a child who is about to commit some terrible torture on one of God's weaker creatures. I often think about Boy George. He is such a curious political specimen in so many ways. Yes, he is highly privileged, but he has suffered much mockery as well. I guess that's what happens. Yes, he has a heart, a hinterland, dimensions, passions, and he bleeds when he is cut, but you rarely see that side of him. He is excellent company in private and can be hilariously funny, but he doesn't mind how he gets his way.-"Sunday 6th March 2016", Diary Of An MP's Wife: Inside And Outside Power, Sasha Swire_

_George Osborne I knew far better. George had arrived in Parliament the same year as me, 2001. We had led for our respective parties on the Child Fund Trust Bill, where I had opposed the Labour government’s legislation, while George had picked holes and prodded, but had avoided outright opposition. I think, in truth, that George would have happily opposed the whole Bill, but the Conservatives were a little nervous of blanket opposition, given that the first government trust fund cheques were due to be sent out very close to the likely general election date in 2005-a remarkable coincidence, no doubt. I learned while serving on the Bill committee that George was bright, sharp and amusing, with a mischievous sense of humour. He also has an extraordinary strategic and tactical understanding of British politics-not just Conservative politics, but that of the Labour and Liberal Democrat parties, too. I never made the mistake of underestimating him, as some of my other colleagues did, and was not surprised when he turned out to be the first Conservative shadow Chancellor to get the measure of Gordon Brown, and to really get under his skin._

_After the publication of the Orange Book, which I co-authored in 2004, there was increased speculation about the scope for co-operation between the Liberal Democrat and Conservative parties. But I recall not long afterwards sitting in George’s office in Portcullis House, warning him that if the Conservatives ever cherished the idea of forming a coalition with the Lib Dems then the price would be a referendum on electoral reform. **“You need to understand,”** I told him, **“that this is not just about the views of the party leadership. In our party, you cannot go into coalition without taking the rest of the party with you. And the party would never, ever allow us to go into coalition at Westminster without some prospect of electoral reform.”**_

_George must have decided that there were better ways of forging partnerships between us, because in the summer recess of 2006 he asked to see me in my office in Westminster, unexpectedly and at short notice. I agreed, thinking that he probably wanted to discuss the scope for co-operation on developing a critique of some part of Gordon Brown’s economic policy-perhaps on tax credits, where there were huge administrative problems._

_George arrived in my office on the fifth floor of 1 Parliament Street, and with very little introduction plunged into his proposition: **“I have come here with David Cameron’s agreement to say that if you will join the Conservative Party we would like to offer you a place in the shadow Cabinet, and then-when we win, which we will-the Cabinet.”**_

_I was pretty stunned, but knew this was not an offer to leave hanging in the air. **“I am going to have to decline that, however flattering,”** I said. **“The truth is that I am a liberal, not a Conservative. I believe passionately in creating a fairer country, but I happen to believe that this will be done through liberal means and not by big government solutions.”**_

_George clearly thought I was stark raving mad. **“But don’t you actually want to be in government doing something, rather than spending a lifetime in opposition?”** he asked._

**_“I don’t expect to spend a lifetime in opposition,”_ ** _I said. **“I think that Labour will lose the next election, but I don’t think you’ll have enough seats to form a government. At that stage there may well be some sort of coalition.”** We had a long discussion on the difference between liberalism and Conservatism, and where we both saw the three political parties positioned. He gave no ground, and neither did I. We both agreed to keep our discussions confidential and so they remained for a good six months, until the journalist Peter Oborne phoned me up one day to tell me he had heard the story from someone-I know not from which party-and that he was going to write it all up. By then, it didn’t really matter._

_Now, suddenly, the prospect of being in the same government as George, but representing different parties, seemed remarkably real. We must both have seen the irony of the situation, though neither of us mentioned it. -22 Days In May: The Birth Of The Lib Dem-Conservative Coalition, David Laws_

_Clegg also noted that (Danny) Alexander seemed to have gone native almost immediately in the Treasury. **“Danny is like the first special forces guy sent up the river to assassinate Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now,” **according to one Tory observer, **“the one who becomes totally devoted to his original target. Well, Danny was soon wearing warpaint and very much Colonel George’s man. No wonder Clegg was baffled.”** ….Clegg believed the Tories, for all their talk of **“fairness”** , were contaminating welfare reform. **“I don’t have a problem with the policy in anyone else’s hands, George,”** he said. **“It’s the way you present it.”** The next day Clegg and his family were in Hampshire to see one of Miriam’s colleagues. The Lib Dem leader was trying to handle detailed discussions while having a normal family weekend, with no officials listening in to a series of mobile phone conversations with his senior colleagues, which became, he later told aides, **“pretty acrimonious.”** Clegg got in touch with Steve Webb, the Lib Dem Minister of State at the DWP, to see if he understood the detail correctly. Meanwhile, he was furious that the Chancellor was apparently up to his old tricks, putting pressure on Alexander. Osborne texted the Chief Secretary: **“Nick is trying to re-open this deal.”** Alexander forwarded the message to Clegg who was, once again, angry at what he regarded as crass arm-twisting. He instinctively warmed to Osborne, with whom he had a lot in common. But this was, in the DPM’s view, an abuse of Alexander’s strong loyalty to both men, reducing politics to a great game. _

_To which Osborne’s response was, in effect—absolutely, and watch me win it. -In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_Although Osborne harboured a juvenile streak-even challenging another Magdalen alumnus to a wasabi-eating contest at a Japanese restaurant that summer (of 1996), emerging victorious but doubled over in agony-he was actually drawn to **“intellectually self-made women,”** says a peer. His female friends, such as the historian Amanda Foreman, were **“more Bloomsbury than Knightsbridge.”** Howell was two years older than Osborne, and at least as clever. She also had an even wider circle of friends, including Catherine Ostler, a former flatmate who would go on to edit Tatler, and Simone Finn, now a special adviser in the government and a one-time girlfriend of Michael Gove, Osborne’s future Cabinet colleague. Osborne and Howell began dating seriously. Within two years, they would marry.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_The clear understanding of the coalition negotiators is that the Conservatives and the Lib Dems will campaign on opposite sides of the (AV) argument, but that they will do so in a dignified way, as becoming of “Rose Garden” partners. That at least is what the Tory negotiators think is agreed. The Lib Dems have gleaned a different understanding: that Cameron will not himself lead from the front, and that as PM, he will maintain an Olympian distance above the troops slugging it out on the ground. The following weeks give no cause for concern. Clegg is reassured by Michael Gove’s hands-off, even indifferent attitude to the result of the referendum. Julian Astle, Clegg’s special adviser, is working on the understanding that the Tory leadership will let AV **“go”** to focus on other matters. One of Clegg’s senior policy aides agrees: **“Cameron’s personal view was that he didn’t really give a damn. AV is not a massive change to the first-past-the-post system. His view was, “Nick, you and I, we’ll just stay out of the fray on that one.””** Indeed some leading Conservatives, like Gove, are actively considering coming out and supporting AV….The New Year in 2011 brings a chill wind to Number 10. The (Andy) Coulson affair is rocking the confidence of the party in Cameron and heralds open season for critics to come out into the open. In the second week of January, rumours fly around Westminster that Cameron and the high Tory command are not putting their weight behind the referendum just four months away. Graham Brady and the executive of the 1922 Committee come on a visitation to Downing Street. They are not happy. **“You do realise that there is now a serious prospect that you could have the distinction of being the last ever Conservative prime minister,”** they tell him. Cameron listens stony-faced. After the grilling, Osborne warns Cameron that a challenge by angry backbenchers might follow a lost referendum. This is not remotely what Cameron wants to hear in the present climate….Among Cameron’s circle, Osborne is the most agitated; strategist and pollster Andrew Cooper is the most sanguine, believing that the tide will turn and the **“No”** campaign will triumph. Osborne convinces them more impetus is needed…Cameron knows raising more money is key, but he is becoming uneasy with the aggressive turn campaigning is taking. He knows it will damage his relationship with Clegg and his Lib Dem partners if he himself accepts the upfront role Osborne is urging him to take. The vitriol against the Lib Dems is about to become personal….Right-wing websites and commentators are saying Cameron has been weak in his running of the coalition and should be giving the Lib Dems a much harder time; indeed, that he should never have conceded the referendum in the first place. Cameron is caught between a rock and a hard place. Attack Clegg and he strains the coalition: hold back, and his party attack him. To the Lib Dems, Cameron’s predicament is a symptom of his weakness in his party…He is at a loss to know what to do. Osborne has heard enough: he can take no more fence-sitting. **“Look,”** he says, **“we have to win this fucking thing; who cares what Clegg thinks?”** There are no ifs and buts. Cameron listens in silence. So do other members of his team in his study, watching to see how he will respond. Later that day, Cameron calls (Andrew) Feldman: **“I absolutely agree with George,”** he says. **“We cannot lose this.”** -Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_His fascination with history, the subject in which he would immerse himself academically for the next decade, was obvious to any visitor to his bedroom. The spacious perch at the top of 36 Porchester Terrace included the usual accoutrements of boyhood: a computer, a Rubik’s cube, a stamp collection ( **“Of course he had to have a penny black,”** says a friend. But there was also a poster of Winston Churchill ((Ben) Slotover (Osborne’s close friend) had one of David Bowie) and a display case of war memorabilia….He then enjoyed a stint at the revered independent bookshop Foyles on the Charing Cross Road. Appropriately for a politician whose bookshelves are now dominated by accounts of great men, he worked in the biography section, which was located on the ground floor. Bookshops were his natural setting. As a younger teenager, he and Ben Slotover would spend weekend afternoons perusing the neighbouring (and radically left-wing) outlet Colletts, which is no longer there.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Howard actually gave him (Osborne) a choice of two posts: shadow Home Secretary or, astonishingly, shadow Chancellor. **“Think about it over the weekend,”** said Howard, who then trumped even that offer by suggesting that Osborne also stand for the leadership. Osborne, already physically flagging after an arduous campaign, took some time to absorb what he was hearing. He had been nudged to consider running before, but by friends and peers such as Steve Hilton-not a party leader and former Cabinet titan who was older than his own father. _ _A weekend set aside for blissful repose was now clouded by pensive deliberation. Osborne and his wife went to see Nicholas Hytner’s production of Henry IV at the National Theatre on London’s South Bank, with its modernist architecture and strategic views of Parliament. Osborne identified with the political agonies playing out on stage: a weary king looking to his own succession, his son and heir slowly coming of age. He smiled wryly, and came to a view. Yes, Gordon Brown, who had presided over eight years of growth and low inflation, was the towering slayer of six shadow Chancellors. In The commons he was, in Howard’s words, **“dominant in a way I still struggle to understand.”** Were Osborne to flounder against him, as six older men had done before him, his political rise would be over in his mid-thirties. For all this, however, Osborne felt that it was better to try and fail than to spurn the chance and harbour eternal regret. Since his school days, Osborne had craved eminence. This was it._

_He spoke to his wife, his parents and, fully four years after he had ceased to work for him, William Hague, before deciding that he would accept the job of shadow Chancellor. The leadership, however, struck him as a leap too far. He was five years younger than the most junior of all the mooted candidates, his friend David Cameron. Indeed, that Sunday, Osborne hosted Greg Barker at his London home to discuss how to stop another candidate seizing the modernising tag before Cameron, who was relaxing in his Oxfordshire constituency, made his move. The idea of Osborne himself running did not occur in the conversation. On the morning of 10 May (2005), Osborne told Howard that he would like to become shadow Chancellor but he was minded not to stand for the leadership. With needless grace, he said he would understand if Howard chose to withdraw the first offer in light of his reluctance to accept the second. Howard brushed this aside and confirmed him as shadow Chancellor. Upon hearing the news, Andrew Mitchell, an MP (and now a Cabinet member) whose office was in the same Commons corridor as Osborne’s, invited him inside for some celebratory champagne. The new shadow Chancellor told Mitchell that his **“gambling streak”** had drawn him to the job. **“Brown needs to get lucky all the time,”** he said, in the manner of a plucky guerrilla taking on a ponderous army. **“I only need to get lucky some of the time.”** He envisaged opposition politics as asymmetric war.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, George Osborne_

_Cameron was simultaneously appointed shadow Education Secretary, having initially turned down the work and pensions brief. That Howard was happy to meet this request is a measure of his regard for Cameron but why, given this inordinate esteem for his former adviser-, did the outgoing leader not offer him the shadow chancellorship, or ask him quite as directly to become his successor? Osborne’s impressive public performances during the (2005) election campaign might have influenced his thinking. Cameron, the author of the manifesto, played a largely backroom role. There is also a theory, espoused by some of those close to Osborne, that Howard favoured Cameron all along but could not give him the shadow chancellorship as it would effectively be seen as an endorsement for the leadership. Osborne was too young and improbable a contender to attract the same suspicion. Both of these explanations are plausible but many Tories who knew all three men also suspect that Howard nursed some reservations about Cameron. He had, it is said, spurned the chance to become party chairman the previous year. Then there was the **“squishiness”** that irked even his closest political friends. Cameron was neither an unreconstructed right-winger-indeed, he had valued worries about the party’s tone on immigration that disappointed Howard’s team-nor an especially vociferous moderniser. Since the mid-1990s, his gaggle of political peers-(Rachel) Whetstone, (Kate) Fall, Bridges, Gove, Hilton, Osborne himself-had seen him as the most plausible future leader among them without ever knowing what a Cameron-led Tory party would be like. Osborne, by contrast, had some definition and direction. He was plainly fixated on the centre ground. During a conversation that summer with John Glen, the young head of CRD, he drew a horizontal line on a scrap of paper to represent the political spectrum. He scribbled **“Tories”** halfway along the right side of the line, **“Brown”** some way to the left side, and **“Blair”** in its very middle. **“That is where we have to be,”** he said, jabbing insistently at the Prime Minister’s name._

_Osborne is not a worrier. Although he had not yet refused outright Howard’s invitation to run, there were no long dark nights of the soul. **“That’s just not how he thinks,”** according to a friend. His state of mind blended indecision with equanimity. When he interviewed a Bank of England analyst called Matthew Hancock with a view to recruiting him as his adviser, the young economist asked his future boss whether he would go for the leadership. **“I honestly don’t know but I suspect not,”** was the reply. Others around Osborne picked up the same intimations. **“I got the feeling pretty early on that he wouldn’t stand,”** remembers Ed Staite, a press adviser who briefly worked for Osborne._

_During the ensuring week, this reluctance to run was hardened by two experiences. On 17 May he endured his first Commons showdown with Brown. He was confronted by an orchestrated wall of noise from the Labour benches and struggled to test his intimidating opponent. As he peered over the despatch box, he understood that his most pressing priority was simply to survive as shadow Chancellor. Combining the job with the burden of a leadership campaign would probably undermine both roles. This realisation then became a settled will when he talked to Cameron soon after. The new shadow Education Secretary was clear and direct: he wanted to run and, if Osborne did not, he would like him to manage his campaign. Osborne saw that Cameron possessed the certainty that a leadership hopeful needed, and that he himself lacked. His mind was now made up. To avoid any scent of conspiracy or deal-making, Osborne did not inform Cameron of his decision before briefing journalists. The Daily Telegraph carried the story on 20 May that Osborne would not stand for the leadership after all. **“I have a big enough job being shadow Chancellor, opposing Gordon Brown and developing an economic policy that broadens the appeal of the Conservative Party,”** he told the newspaper, in an unalloyed account of his genuine thoughts.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_There is another, less charitable take on Osborne’s insouciance that summer (of 2005). Some on the campaign suspected that he was half-expecting to lose and discretely positioning himself to thrive in a (David) Davis-led Tory party. They were right to see political motives in his conspicuous flirtation with the idea of a flat-income tax. He never seriously considered adapting the policy but knew that feigning an interest would win friends on the right for Cameron’s campaign-and also for himself. **“It was almost entirely political positioning,”** according to one of Osborne’s closest allies. His critics would accuse him of doing something similar two summers later, when he renounced **“uber-modernisers”** amid speculation of a looming election that had the potential to end Cameron’s career._

_This perception of Osborne as a Vicar of Bray, always willing to recalibrate his views and loyalties to get on, was exaggerated. But it was encouraged when he, along with (Hugo) Swire, attended a dinner at the Nottinghamshire home of Andrew Mitchell, Davis’s campaign manager. Mitchell tried delicately to persuade his guests that Cameron’s time would come later, but Osborne was unmoved. Both he and his host received anxious text messages during the evening from their respective candidates; Davis was as paranoid as Cameron that the dinner would conclude with the defection of his campaign manager. Osborne is now teased by friends about his **“night in Transylvania,”** but Cameron and his supporters were not so relaxed about his motives at the time. Whether or not Osborne **“went wobbly,”** as some allege, he was justified in focusing on his job as shadow Chancellor.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_We then had a brief discussion about foreign policy and the Prime Minister closed the meeting. It felt a little bit of an anti-climax, but this was no time for tears or tantrums, and ministers picked up their papers, balanced their crisps and beer on their Cabinet folders and left the room for the last time in the parliament._

_As they got up from the Cabinet table, George Osborne turned to Nick Clegg and whispered, **“I think we’ll both be back here together after the election.”**_

_Outside the Cabinet Room, in the lobby, attendants kindly gave out small bags so that we could put our beer and crisps in them, and avoid the sight of the full Cabinet parading down Downing Street as if we were off to a bargain basement student party. I usually made my way back to my room in the Cabinet Office through the connecting door between No. 10 and the Cabinet Office building-through the sliding doors with the sign that says “No cats beyond this point.” On this occasion, it seemed more appropriate to leave through the front door._

_Meanwhile, out in the Downing Street garden, special advisers gathered together for a final team photograph with the Prime Minister and Deputy Prime Minister. It all felt a bit like the beginning of the coalition in May 2010, when the Cabinet was photographed together out in the Downing Street garden on a warm, spring day._

_Nick Clegg and David Cameron talked briefly as they walked down the garden to have their photographs taken together. The Prime Minister doubted that his party would win an absolute majority in the coming election. His mind was clearly turning to the possibility of a second coalition.- Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

* * *

**(Lib Dems)**

_Unimpressively, Tim Farron, president of the party, hasn’t bothered to attend. I know he doesn’t like doing things at the weekend, but if he wants to be leader one day, he is going to have to do better than this. Nick recently had lunch with Ken Clarke, who apparently said of Farron: **“I met your president recently, Nick. I must say that he is the least remarkable senior politician I can ever remember.”** Very true. Tim is a pleasant, populist lightweight, with deeply offensive and illiberal views on issues such as gay marriage-totally unsuitable to lead a liberal party worthy of the name.-“Saturday 14th June 2014”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2013, David Laws_

_Nick summed up: **“OK. That’s as far as we can go today. I should just make clear, though, that if we are not in government, I will announce immediately that I am standing down as leader. But I think we need a good, long leadership election to really test out all the candidates. It would not be good if someone like Tim Farron was anointed as leader with no debate or scrutiny at all.”**_

_At that precise moment, my mobile phone started to vibrate with a text message coming through. It was a message from Tim Farron to all Liberal Democrat MPs: **“Thinking of you all. Very best wishes for Thursday. Good luck! Tim Farron”.** I read the message out. **“I think the leadership campaign may be starting a little sooner than expected,”** I said. Nick raised his eyes to heaven.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_Stopped to do a Cabinet ministers’ conference call on the outskirts of Farnham. Nick mentioned tomorrow’s final Cabinet meeting-Cameron has got some brewing company in his constituency to produce a special “Co-ale-ition Bitter!” to give to all Cabinet members. Nick said that in return he would be presenting packets of crisps. I assumed he was joking. **“Crisps?”**_

_Nick said he was serious, and had got them produced by some company up in Sheffield. Alistair Carmichael was unimpressed: **“Don’t they make anything a bit nicer in the way of food in your constituency, you bloody cheapskate, Clegg!”** …This evening Cameron has given a strange interview saying he will not seek a third term as Prime Minister.-“Monday 23rd March 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

* * *

**(Coalition, Rose Garden and AV)**

_Yet that novelty was as nothing compared to the press conference given by Cameron and Clegg in the Downing Street Rose Garden at 2.15 that afternoon. For this moment of bipartisan unity, however glutinous and transient, there was absolutely no precedent. Power is naturally pyramidal: it looks odd without an apex. But here were two party leaders-of similar background, countenance and bearing-apparently sharing power in the national interest….By this time, the duo seemed as comfortable as a music hall double act. Cameron was asked if he regretted saying that his favourite political joke was **“Nick Clegg.”** The Lib Dem leader took his cue and, camping it up, said: **“I’m off…”** Cameron bit on the bait, wailing: **“Come back!”**_

_However real it was, whatever the future held, the spectacle commanded attention. In their words and body language, the two men betrayed no reluctance, no hint that they were merely settling for this governing arrangement in the absence of anything better. Instead, Cameron and Clegg gave the impression that the Coalition was the ideal outcome for the nation, all they had hoped for personally. They not only looked the part; they seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else. There could be no more striking way to mark the end of an era overshadowed by the implacable rivalry between two men (Tony Blair and Gordon Brown). As open to ridicule as the performance was, it dramatized a tough political message with clear resonance: the structural deficit that they had inherited and the grim global economic context provided all the rationale that Cameron and Clegg needed for a grown-up government of national unity, in which party differences were set aside in the national interest. It looked like pier-end comedy. But it was aimed foursquare at the markets. The two men had established a quick rapport during and immediately after the coalition talks. (Kate) Fall, so often Cameron’s eyes and ears, believed that the essential affability and optimism they had in common were more important than the shared public school background that transfixed the media…It helped Cameron-a lot-that he was not Gordon Brown. Clegg had no doubt which of the two main party leaders he would prefer to work with, even if, as Brown had promised, he would be gone as soon as Labour had elected a new leader. In the Cabinet Room before the Rose Garden press conference, Coulson gave his boss and the new Deputy PM a pep talk, but was struck by how comfortable they already seemed in one another’s presence. According to one Cameroon: **“Nobody really had to play Cupid.”** One would never have guessed that only a fortnight before they had been tearing chunks out of each other in the final television debate at the University of Birmingham. At best, this was indeed a fresh start; at worst, it was a masterclass in political choreography. Osborne was impressed by Clegg’s readiness to embrace coalition unreservedly. **“Their hands really are soaked in the blood,”** he later observed.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_Our own conversation came later in the day. It wouldn't be our first interaction. Purely by accident, we had a good talk at the opening ceremony of the new Supreme Court in 2009. While Brown and the Queen undertook the formalities, Nick and I talked politics, families and life. He was only three months younger than me, and our lives were very similar. We shared a liberal outlook and an easy manner. I left thinking, what a reasonable, rational, decent guy._

_As we sat down that Saturday night in a dingy room in Admiralty House, one of the government buildings on Whitehall, we discussed how we'd given the press the slip. Underground car park, I said. Switching cars outside the Home Office, he said. We went through our two manifestos and talked about compromises. But the detail was for the negotiators. For us, it was about the bigger picture-and it was about trust. We agreed that we could and should work together. There was a mutual recognition that we would both be judged forever on whether we could make something unprecedented work at a time when our nation needed it most. We were both taking a big risk. For me, the risk would be angering those in my party who would not tolerate being in coalition, and might turn against me. But given the history of coalitions for minor parties, he was taking a greater risk._

_**"If we go for this I'll make it work,"** I said to him. **"I'll make the deal a success, and I'll make it last."** I meant it, and I think he could see that...(A) late-night phone call had been set up by our aides to confirm that a full coalition was off the table, and we were now only looking at confidence and supply. But Clegg and I both went off script. **"Why are we doing this?"** we asked each other. We agreed that we should try again to go the whole hog. I said I would have another look at an AV referendum, and push my party towards a full coalition...In many ways, those five days in May (2010) were the most surreal and tense of my five years as opposition leader. But looking back, some of the things that looked as if they would hinder our path to power actually smoothed the way. Take Nick Clegg. During the election campaign he had seemed like a big obstacle: the insurgent with a message of change. But the fact that we had similar temperaments and values, and were thinking the same way when crunch time came, meant that we were able to form this historic union when we had to...I am in no doubt that our flexibility and the concessions we were willing to make, combined with the tone we adopted from the outset, made a huge difference in bringing our two parties together._

_In many ways, the boldest move wasn't the decision to form a coalition. It was the decision to make it work. There would be many difficult arguments and painful compromises to come. Sometimes there were full-on shouting matches and accusations of bad faith. Like all governments we made mistakes and missteps. But it was to prove one of the most stable-and, I would argue, most successful-governments anywhere in Europe. And I never once regretted the course we had taken. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_Though the business of government continued, the tensions within the Coalition were now severe and overt. In March (2011), Chris Huhne was infuriated by (Sayeeda) Warsi’s claim that AV would help the BNP and declared that **“this is another example of the increasingly Goebbels-like campaign from the anti-AV people, for whom no lie is too idiotic given the truth is so unpalatable to them.”** Officially, Downing Street claimed to be relaxed about such crossfire, shrugging it off as an inevitable feature of a fiercely contested referendum. Privately, the Cameroons wondered if the governing partnership could take the strain, and how easy a female Muslim who had been compared to a Nazi by a Cabinet colleague would find it to resume business as usual after the vote. Warsi was indeed shaken by the exchange though (at this stage) confident of the PM’s support. Clegg was torn between anger at the content of the campaign literature and anger at Huhne for his shameless show-boating. **“Chris was getting ready to slip into the leader’s chair if and when Nick fell, that much was clear,”** according to one supporter of the Deputy PM.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_Everything now changes from February (2011). Cameron puts Number 10 on a war footing, telling his staff to get right behind the “No” campaign and instructs CCHQ to organise at least one major activity for him on AV each week….Clegg’s team are incandescent about Cameron’s new tack. They suspect the PM at best of turning a blind eye, at worst of ordering the “No” campaign to personalise their attacks on Clegg. The Lib Dem leader’s poll ratings are on floor level: Clegg’s aides surmise the Conservatives are capitalising on his weakness by turning the leader of the “Yes” campaign into an object of public ridicule, in effect making the referendum not about AV but Clegg himself. To the Lib Dems, Cameron’s action is in direct contravention of earlier (if disputed) understandings. It is **“the great betrayal.”…** Cameron and Osborne divide up phone calls to newspaper editors and commentators, urging them to fight AV. Eventually the Daily Telegraph, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Sun and The Times all come out against. The Lib Dems are furious when they hear about the calls. The “No” campaign, reflecting strenuous market research, focuses their campaign on the **“three Cs”** : cost, complexity and Clegg…Osborne asks CCHQ what more he could do by way of a **“big intervention”** to help the “No” cause. **“Lend your authority as chancellor to our claims about the cost to taxpayers of AV”** he is told. To Lib Dem fury, the No to AV campaign says the change will cost the country £250 million, leading Chris Huhne to write an angry letter on 24 April asking Osborne to deny this claim. For Clegg, **“the spring of 2011 is the lowest of the low.”**_

_Number 10 is finding it hard to maintain the story that Cameron is not responsible himself for the personal attacks and that they are instead down to Labour: **“Basically we convinced ourselves that it was Labour who forced us to play tough. But this was a fairly thin fig leaf,”** admits one of Cameron’s inner circle. They know the attacks will anger Clegg: it is a calculated risk, but one they feel they have to take. They draw the line merely at personal or nasty stories about Clegg or the Lib Dems. Not that Clegg sees it that way. At the height of the campaign he visits his parents near Oxford with his wife and children. **“Look, we’ve just got this leaflet through the door,”** his father tells him, **“it’s outrageous.”** Clegg junior is handed the leaflet depicting what he describes as **“incredibly personalised stuff about me.”** He believes the personal attacks are wholly gratuitous and can under no circumstances be justified. He is sickened by the Tory mantra: **“It’s Labour’s fault, not ours”** or **“We have to work with Labour on the campaign and they felt it was the only way to make their voters vote against AV: we are terribly sorry.”** Not that it totally shatters his view of Cameron: he continues to believe in his partner’s integrity and discomfort at what is happening.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Panic-we might lose this-began to set in, especially after the 1922 Executive Committee paid me a visit and expressed their fears about a loss. The fact was that we needed the big guns, and the big money-and I could do something to help that. What would be worse: damaging the coalition, or damaging democracy? I had to weight it up. The latter was far worse…There was one more desperate measure to consider. Stephen Gilbert came into my morning meeting in Downing Street one day, and waited afterwards to talk to George and me alone. He said the No campaign wanted to add a third “c” to the argument about how “costly” and “complicated” AV was: “Clegg.” It could harness his dwindling popularity to show that AV would mean more coalitions, and more Cleggs playing kingmaker in British politics. The Tory tribe was gearing up for another of tis uprisings. This time it probably wouldn’t be regicide, but it would be another grassroots revolt that I could do without. So I said: **“Do it.”** I didn’t agree every word and every picture. But I did wince when I eventually saw the leaflets with a picture of Clegg holding that sign saying he wouldn’t vote for tuition fees, and the words **“AV will lead to more broken promises.”**_

_Politics is a brutal business. You have to campaign with all you’ve got. You have to put long-term interests above immediate concerns, and your own party and survival above other parties and leaders-however much you like and get on with them. -For The Record, David Cameron_

_On Tuesday 3 May, two days before the referendum, matters come to a head in Cabinet. Lib Dem Energy Secretary Chris Huhne is observed to be in a highly charged state as he waits outside the Cabinet Room for the meeting to begin. He then bursts in with a stack of leaflets from the “No” campaign attacking Clegg for going back on the Lib Dem pledge on tuition fees, and says he is appalled by the actions of those at the very top of the Conservative Party. The meeting begins. He turns on Cameron: **“I want to know if you disassociate yourself from these leaflets smearing Nick.”** He challenges the Prime Minister to sack Stephen Gilbert, demanding to know whether he had been responsible for producing them. Cameron is taken aback by the onslaught. **“I am not responsible for the all party literature produced by the “No” campaign,”** he says. Huhne thinks he is dodging the question and shoves the leaflets across the Cabinet table towards Osborne. **“This was always going to be a difficult period for the coalition,”** Osborne responds, seeking to pacify him. Huhne comes back at him, even more forcibly, demanding if he had known in advance about these leaflets. **“I am not going to be challenged by a Cabinet colleague acting like he is Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight,” **responds the chancellor. _

_Round the table there is a collective dropping of ministerial jaws. Huhne turns on Sayeeda Warsi, and says she must resign as party co-chairman. Several ministers with longer memories, like David Willetts, wonder whether they are about to witness a **“Heseltine moment”** , a reference to the highly charged occasion when the blond-haired firebrand stormed out of Thatcher’s Cabinet in 1986 over the Westland helicopter affair. **“You could hear a pin drop,”** Willetts recalls. It is the trickiest moment in Cabinet for Cameron by a distance: yet Huhne is not finished. He reverts to Cameron and demands that he condemns posters that have suggested that babies’ and soldiers’ lives are at risk if AV is introduced. Cameron and Osborne argue that they are only responsible for the “No” campaign being run by the Conservative Party. When asked again on Radio 4’s Today programme to condemn the posters featuring ill babies, Cameron replies, **“The fact is that if you move to a new voting system it will cost money.”** After the Huhne inquisition is over, ministers return to Cabinet business._

_Cameron’s team reflect on the outburst at their 4 p.m. meeting. They have different views. Some see Huhne’s outburst as anti-Clegg positioning: Clegg is at a very low ebb, the tuition-fees row has damaged his confidence, with over 30,000 protesters marching on the streets, some carrying effigies of Clegg. He has been suffering both personally and professionally for a number of months: he was ill in the early part of 2011 as well as being **“crucified in the right-and the left-wing press in a way that I don’t think we’ve seen in British politics since the days of Neil Kinnock.”** ….The truth is that Clegg is desperately weak and has become depressed about his party’s fortunes, and Huhne, for all his indignation, is parading his own leadership credentials.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Thursday 5 May is referendum day. The AV system is resoundingly rejected by 67.9% to 32.1% on a turnout of 42.2%. Victory strengthens Cameron’s position in the Conservative Party. For a time. And at a cost. As (Gus) O’Donnell predicted, the episode has inflicted significant and enduring damage to the coalition. To Clegg, **“a certain kind of hardness entered into the transactions”** thereafter, while to Vince Cable **“it was perfectly clear that we were dealing with people who have no sentiment.”** To Danny Alexander **“it is the moment the scales fall away from our eyes about the Tories. The personal attacks on Nick were personal and brutal.”** It ends any notion that the relationship between the two parties will realign British politics. **“We are one team. We are one government”** had been the mantra of Cameron, (Ed) Llewellyn and Coulson when they first went into Downing Street. There were joint meetings, shared offices, joint political Cabinets at Chequers, joint press operations and joint policy units. The AV debacle sweeps all this away. There are to be no more joint meetings. **“Nothing again will rest on goodwill, everything has become a transactional relationship,”** says Astle. **“It became: I’ll concede this in return for that.” It was all negotiation and bargaining.”**_

_But survive the coalition does. Clegg picks himself up and the Lib Dems put their show back on the road. They’ve lost their primary raison d’etre for entering the coalition: electoral reform, and with its defeat, much of the support in the country for their party leadership becomes more flaky. And yet there is now a new purpose for the Lib Dems in the coalition, informed by the sober recognition that pulling out would result in a general election, which would be disastrous for them electorally. The new mission is to continue to show that they can be credible members of government, bring economic stability back to the country, and achieve as many of their own policies as they can. For a while after the defeat, Clegg’s leadership position looks to be in serious danger: but when Huhne resigns in February 2012 to face prosecution for perverting the course of justice over a speeding offence, the pressure recedes, and Clegg’s buoyance slowly returns. To coalition architect (Oliver) Letwin, the AV episode provides the moment of greatest tension within the coalition to date: **“If we could get through AV in one piece together, we could get through anything. The coalition would indeed endure until 2015.”** It is for this reason that for some, the AV referendum proves **“the key turning point”** that ensures the coalition lasts for the **“full five years.”** -Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_The next day at cabinet, Lib Dem energy secretary Chris Huhne confronted me about the AV leaflets. No was pulling ahead in the polls, and the Yes campaign was rattled. He tossed copies of the offending literature down on the cabinet table, asking if George had been behind them, and demanding I sack whoever approved them. I mumbled something about not personally approving every leaflet, and made the point that there was a Conservative campaign I **was** responsible for, and an all-party campaign that included other parties. Nick Clegg looked embarrassed. Everyone else was silent. Then George piped up: **“This is the British cabinet, not some sub-Jeremy Paxman interview on Newsnight.” **It was just enough to deflate Huhne.. I moved on to the next item on the agenda, and the meeting continued as if nothing had happened._

_Then came polling day. That evening, as the results started to come in, I returned from dinner and watched the TV. The polls were good. There seemed to be nothing to worry about-and I slept soundly. It wasn’t until the morning that it was confirmed: No won by 68 per cent to 32 per cent. Turnout was 42 per cent._

_I don’t look upon the victory with much fondness. It was, in the coalition story, a miserable little episode. And things between our parties would never quite be the same._

_That said, my relationship with Nick **did** recover. He came to Dean in August (2011), just a few months after the result. We played tennis, had lunch and talked about how to get the coalition back on the road. It was a big deal after such a rocky patch in our relationship, and even my children were excited about his arrival. I remember Nancy saying, **“Dad, is NICK CLEGG really coming here to Dean? Wow!”** -For The Record, David Cameron_

_The Lib Dems’ growing conviction that they had been deceived by the Tories came to a head at a Cabinet meeting two days before the referendum, when Huhne (again) confronted Cameron with anti-AV leaflets that attacked Clegg personally. Huhne then challenged the Prime Minister to justify the campaign literature and to sack any Tory official involved in their production or distribution. Osborne intervened, telling Huhne: **“This is the Cabinet, not some kind of sub-Jeremy Paxman interview.”** Clegg’s silence was eloquent. It was his habitual role in Cabinet-and outside-to seek common ground when senior Lib Dems clashed with the Tories. But in this instance he wanted Cameron and Osborne to savour the embarrassment he was feeling. Osborne increasingly thought that Huhne was a joke, and was no more impressed by his occasional attempts at camaraderie- **“You and me, George, we’re operators”-** than by his antics in Cabinet. He also thought that Clegg had too thin a skin, and had yet to come to terms with the price a governing politician pays for exercising power. Cameron was more concerned that Clegg was close to the edge and what that might mean for the coalition….The scales, at any rate, had fallen from Clegg’s eyes. His relationship with Cameron had survived, for the simple reason that it had to. But where Clegg had previously seen his coalition partner as a reasonable, moderate man with broadly similar instincts to his own, he now regarded him as the acceptable face of a truly appalling party. **“Can you control your people?”** was what he now asked Cameron time and again…From the humiliation of tuition fees to the humiliation of the referendum: the period from October 2010 to May 2011 had carved a terrible arc through Clegg’s fortunes, a remorseless series of political adversities. Public trust in the Lib Dems had plummeted over the party’s broken promise on fees. And what had he got in return? Power, yes, but power to what end? The referendum had (it was assumed) settled the question of electoral reform for a generation and wrecked the dream of centre-Left realignment….The collateral damage to the Coalition was immense. Clegg urged Cameron to see it from his point of view: **“Consider what it’s like. There can’t be many leaders who can survive that kind of shock.”** The Tories had not planned to fight the referendum so hard, so personally, so pitilessly. But-having decided to do so-they let Clegg and his fellow reformers have it with both barrels. In the words of one senior Downing Street official: **“Nick realised what we’re like, what Tories are capable of.”** The age of innocence was over, never to return. As another Cameron ally put it **: “The Rose Garden had been well and truly napalmed.” -**In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

* * *

**(Lib Dems on Cameron, Osborne, Tories and negotiations)**

**_“I would love to take everyone out of their first ten thousand pounds of income tax, Nick. It’s a beautiful idea, it’s a lovely idea. But we can’t afford it.”_ ** _This was how David Cameron reacted during the first televised leaders’ debate in 2010, with a somewhat dismissive wave of his hand, towards what eventually became by far the biggest tax reform of the coalition years…The Conservatives, however, were reluctant to agree to commit to delivering the policy in full, for fear of detracting from their own tax policies. As George Osborne repeatedly made clear to Danny and me in meetings of the quad, the Conservatives regarded the policy as a Lib Dem **“ask”,** for which we would need to make concessions elsewhere. In the early stages of the government he insisted that, according to the wording of the Coalition Agreement, the £10,000 threshold was merely a **“longer-term policy objective”,** which meant that the Treasury was not duty bound to deliver it. I was nonplussed at how churlish the Conservatives were towards what was a patently popular policy, but I was naturally happy to champion tax cuts to low-and middle-earners as a Liberal Democrat achievement. But as soon as Osborne realised its immense public appeal, he changed his tune. During budgets and autumn statements in Parliament he revelled in the pantomime atmosphere of the Chamber-more similar to Gordon Brown than he would ever care to admit-and used the tax cut to burnish his progressive credentials and taunt the opposition benches....George Osborne revealed a less attractive side of his complex character in a protracted argument he and I had about the terms on which Lib Dems in government could commission advice from civil servants without relaying that advice to Conservative Secretaries of State. My team felt-rightly-that in a coalition government both parties should be able to explore preliminary policy ideas with the help of officials without immediately sharing them even more widely. Given how trenchant the Conservatives had become about protecting the **“private space”** within government, free from Freedom of Information requests, I assumed they would understand that both political parties deserved a little **“private space”** in which to work up their own ideas in government. Osborne was, by turns, petulant and underhand in his remorseless efforts over several months to frustrate the plan. In the end, I managed to get my way-but as he well knew, it came so late in the parliament that it was of little practical use. What this odd Yes, Minister episode shows-two of the most senior ministers of a government locked in an impenetrably petty procedural feud-is the significance that the Conservatives attached to the mechanics as well as the trappings of power. It is what they live for.-Politics: Between The Extremes, Nick Clegg_

_After a long discussion where it was clear that neither side was going to give way, George Osborne suddenly said: **“Look, we’ve got to make some progress on all this other stuff. Why don’t we agree a truce? You give up on bashing company directors, and we’ll give up on bashing the workers.”** …In the middle of February (2014), there was a first, rather ill-tempered Quad on the Budget. Nick said he wanted another big rise in the personal allowance. George Osborne said that this would be expensive, and he would require a whole series of Lib Dem concessions in return. Nick said that he resented having to push for big increases in the personal tax allowance in each Budget, which required conceding Conservative priorities in exchange for this, only to find that the Conservatives then wanted to get all the credit for delivering the higher allowance. **“It’s like you’re selling me an expensive car that you then want to get in and drive off with,”** said Nick Clegg. **“This time it’s got to be different.”** This prompted something of a row: **“I don’t care about the allowance,”** said David Cameron. **“It’s not my priority.”**_

**_“If you think I am just going to deliver a Lib Dem Budget, you’ve got another thing coming,”_ ** _said George Osborne._

_“ **Fine,”** said Nick. **“In that case, we will say publicly that we pushed for this, and you declined to support it. You can’t keep fighting increases in the allowance in this room and then briefing outside that it’s all your great idea.”** The Quad ended on bad terms, but George Osborne later spoke to Danny Alexander and accepted that he would now concede to Nick another big rise in the allowance. **“You have to admire Osborne,”** said Nick Clegg. **“As soon as he realises that you have check-mated him on something, he just changes his position. It is all very ruthless and pragmatic.”…** George Osborne is a politician’s politician. He is intrigued by politics and is one of those rare individuals who follows the subtleties not only of his own party but of others…George Osborne is much more consistently liberal-with a small “l”-than David Cameron. While the Prime Minister would often judge a policy by its seaworthiness in the Daily Mail, the Chancellor was more inclined to return to liberal first principles, sometimes even seeking to out-liberal his coalition partners. In 2014 when Nick Clegg was arguing, alongside David Cameron, for tighter regulation of betting shops, the Chancellor responded: **“As a liberal, I’m not in favour of excessive regulation. And anyway, you may think that if you close a betting shop you will get something nice, like a muesli shop, but you won’t. You’ll probably just get an empty shop.”** On immigration, the Chancellor could always be found arguing in Cabinet for studiously liberal policies-fewer controls for entrepreneurs and high-value investors, care in dealing with genuine foreign students, and enthusiasm for letting in high-spending Chinese tourists. On Europe, while George Osborne’s views are Eurosceptic in the most limited sense, here was a man who was hardly enthusiastic about a European referendum and who really wanted the whole issue to just go away. _

_But if George Osborne is small-“l” liberal on many issues, he is no Liberal Democrat. On civil liberties, his instincts are broadly Conservative. On foreign policy, he is neo-Conservative. And while he wanted the coalition with the Liberal Democrats to succeed, his interest was in power for himself and his own party and not in some starry-eyed permanent pact. I never doubted that George was a fully paid-up political carnivore, and that ultimately he wanted our votes and our voters, not a coalition for its own sake. When he offered us the prospect of a **“coupon election,”** it wasn’t as an act of charity. And when it came to the general election, he visited the seats of Liberal Democrat ministers, including me, to seek to defeat us. Of course, I would have done the same to him, if I thought we could win his seat…There was, in spite of all George Osborne’s small-“l” liberalism, one major area of disagreement between the Liberal Democrats and the Chancellor. George might be socially liberal-in favour of gay marriage, for example-but he wasn’t really a great champion of social mobility or social justice. Of course, he bought into Michael Gove’s school reforms, but there was never any sense of why. And he saw the social security budget as a giant cash-cow for the Treasury to milk, and not as something that was really necessary to help poor and vulnerable people who might need the support of the state through no fault of their own.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_Nick said that he found Cameron increasingly unimpressive but has far more time for Osborne: **“With George, he is what he is. He’s a liberal on many social issues, he’s actually quite pro-immigration, he couldn’t really care less for the poor but doesn’t disguise it, and he’s pretty right-wing on welfare. However, you can deal with him and at least you know that he’s got a core of beliefs. The problem with David Cameron is you really don’t know where he stands. He’s a marketing man, and he doesn’t have a strong core of beliefs, other than that the Conservative Party and he personally should be in power. He’s obsessed with saying that things must be done “because I have promised it”, without actually explaining why the particular thing is important.”..** We both agreed that Cameron is at his best when he’s chairing meetings and master of a brief, and Nick also said that he has a lot of **“emotional common sense and good abilities as a political leader.”** Cameron is at his worst when dealing with issues such as extremism, terrorism or immigration-where all he cares about is getting a policy sound bite rather than getting the policy right. Nick said that he was sitting on the front bench next to Cameron and asked him whether the new policy on restricting migrant access to private sector rented housing would actually work. Cameron just shrugged his shoulders and said, **“I guess so. We’ll just have to try!”** …George Osborne then spoke, pressing for cuts to benefit rates to pay for his workfare package, but Nick and I resisted. The Tories have a real lack of understanding and interest in finding out about the way poorer people live. Their own experiences just don’t include the problems of those who have nothing…On the way to the Devolution Committee, I bumped into George Osborne, who was looking pretty smug. I congratulated him on so much front-page coverage out of his change to pension tax relief: **“Well, by now I’ve learnt how to titillate the media, and they certainly like stuff to do with tax cuts and pensions!”** Then he said, with his magnificent cynicism: **“It took until the afternoon before one journalist realised that all I was doing was reversing a tax increase which I myself brought in earlier in the government!”** and he put his head back and chuckled…One rather striking aspect of George’s statement is just how smug he looked when he sat down. I suppose it is too late for him to change this characteristic now, but it is not a very attractive one in a politician-anyone viewing the Budget on television will realise that here is somebody who seems to care more about politics and political game playing than a lot of the bread-and-butter issues that will be worrying the electorate.-“Wednesday 10th July 2013-Wednesday 11th September 2013-Monday 2nd October 2014-Wednesday 18th March 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015,, David Laws_

_Early in July, Cameron, Osborne, Danny and I had what turned out to be a significant dinner together-without any assistants or officials present-in the Prime Minister’s flat. A host of mutual grievances had accumulated on both sides of the coalition, so as we shared a meal around his family dining table, we methodically went through all the areas where we had reached an impasse…Most importantly, I made it clear to Cameron and Osborne that I felt we were sharing power with a party that was quite different from the one we had entered into government with in the first place: a compassionate, moderate Conservative Party was one we could do business with; a Conservative Party dancing to the tune of their angry right-wing backbenchers was quite another. I didn’t need any lessons on the importance of holding steady in the moderate centre ground-many people within my own party were highly critical of what we were doing in coalition and wanted to take us in a more traditional left-wing direction. In the same way that I was upholding the centre-ground bargain at the heart of the coalition, I expected Cameron and Osborne to do the same. They weren’t the only ones facing restive MPs. They couldn’t duck and weave to satisfy their own backbenchers and the wild-eyed demands of the right-wing commentariat, without sacrificing the basis on which we had chosen to govern together. In essence, I wanted them to understand that they needed to make a choice: pander to their own right wing, in an attempt to secure their internal party position; or hold fast to the deal they had struck with us, to ensure the survival of the government as a whole….Cameron and Osborne glimpsed their own political mortality. They needed the Lib Dems in order to govern, and they saw that we would not sit quietly on the sidelines while they chased their own tails. -Politics: Between The Extremes, Nick Clegg_

_The Liberal Democrat leader also spelled out that the Chancellor should not just assume the Liberal Democrats would be siding with the Conservatives over the issue: **“We’ve moved a long way from those golden days of cooperation in May 2010. In those days, you and David were leaders of a Tory Party which had a genuinely modernising and positive outlook. That’s all now changed. Your party has lurched so far to the right that it’s going to make cooperation between us incredibly difficult in the future.”**_

_George Osborne looked rather shocked. He said he was concerned to hear that Nick Clegg felt that way, and he suggested that the two men should meet soon for a longer discussion. Within a few hours, George Osborne’s office had phoned Nick Clegg’s to arrange a private meeting to discuss the matter further. **“They are obviously worried they are going to need us after the election,”** Nick Clegg concluded…..Nick Clegg had an assurance from George Osborne that he could launch the Sheffield deal of infrastructure and business investment up in his constituency on Friday 5 December (2014). But on 4 December, Nick was suddenly told that George Osborne was no longer willing to approve the vast majority of what had already been agreed. The launch had to be postponed, even though it was now widely expected. _

_The row soon became deeply acrimonious. For a week following 5 December, the Deputy Prime Minister and Chancellor swapped increasingly angry messages by text. The Chancellor was not just being difficult-he was refusing to meet up or call._ _On 11 December, Nick Clegg demanded to speak to the Prime Minister. It was one of the angriest conversations of the five-year coalition: **“George has crossed the reddest of red lines-not only is he breaking promises but he is screwing me over in my own bloody constituency.”**_

_Eventually, after much work, Nick Clegg secured the Sheffield deal, and it was announced in 2015._ _But the row over it lasted for almost two months and led to a complete breakdown in the relationship between the Deputy Prime Minister and Chancellor. As the year ended, Nick Clegg told me: **“If I lose in Sheffield, the only thing anyone will remember about me is that and tuition fees. I cannot forgive Osborne for undermining me in this way in my own seat.”**_

_It was not a harmonious end to the last year of the parliament. -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_Nick had only been back from his long holiday for about forty-eight hours, but when he came in he looked frayed and tired. **“Sorry to keep you all,”** he said. **“I’ve been in meetings with Cameron and Miliband all day. It’s interesting that big, controversial stuff like this always brings Cameron and me together. He’s been very impressive over the last few days. Osborne is, as ever, being rather tactical, and I am afraid Ed Miliband is totally unreliable. I am fast losing respect for him. Every time there is a big decision-Alternative Vote, Lords, Syria-Miliband has the chance to act big, but he always, always acts small. I really think that if there is a hung parliament after the next general election, and there is a possibility of a Lib-Lab coalition, Miliband’s weakness would be a real problem in working together.**_ **_Cameron and I have tried all day to get Miliband on board but every time we move our position to meet his demands, he just moves further away from us. We made six concessions and after each one he just moved again. We’ve even showed him the Attorney General’s advice, and we’ve agreed on a second vote before military action, and still he won’t agree to the motion we want to put down. So I have come to the view that Miliband is just determined to oppose this. Either he cannot unite his party, or he has one eye on public scepticism in the polls.”_ ** _….I listened carefully to Miliband’s deeply unimpressive contribution and came to the same conclusion that Nick Clegg had done over the past few days-that Ed Miliband simply didn’t have the leadership qualities to make a great party leader, let alone a great Prime Minister….This was the moment for Ed Miliband to be principled and statesmanlike, but he wasn’t. If he had been seriously committed to the contents of his own party’s motion, he would now have tried to secure a consensus for action on a slower timetable-instead he crowed about the coalition’s defeat….Nick Clegg was also deeply disappointed: **“It’s dismal. Isolation and grubby opportunism in equal measure,”** he commented to me later that night….Meanwhile, Ed Miliband had secured a short-term victory that some shrewd observers thought might turn into a longer-term defeat. His sceptical position had been on the side of public opinion. But what the public saw was not a strong, principled leader standing up for what he believed in, but a man who was not in control of his party, and who had ducked and weaved over a matter literally of life and death. In a devastating commentary in the Times newspaper a few days after the vote, under the headline **“Ed Miliband is no leader. He is a vulture”,** David Aaronovitch wrote:_

**_The Syria vote crystallised his failings…and though you can just about see how in a bad year Ed Miliband could become Prime Minister, what I cannot any longer pretend…is that he would be a good one. I think he would be a disaster. Strangely, I think both the country and his party already know it._ ** _ -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws _

_Nick said he’d spoken to Ed Miliband: **“I can’t believe that he’s going to play the left-wing card over Syria, as the press will tear him to pieces. Does he want the blame for chemical weapons being used again by Assad in the future?”** In the evening I spoke to Matt Sanders, who said that he’d sat in a lot of meetings with Miliband and his team over the whole press regulation issue. Matt said that the striking thing about Ed Miliband was that he didn’t seem to carry a great deal of respect amongst people from his own party, from Harriet Harman down...He said he’d been in meetings with Cameron and Miliband all day. He said that he and Cameron are completely aligned but it had been a nightmare dealing with Ed Miliband, who was showing himself to be **“weak-willed and hopelessly tactical.”** Every time Miliband had agreed to and secured one particular concession, he would then move the goalposts and start asking for something else…He now appears to be trying to weasel out of the whole thing. Nick said he really despaired about Miliband and felt that he came across as a very weak and indecisive leader who is constantly looking over his shoulder at his own party and at the potential for creating political mischief….Ed Miliband then got up and this was clearly his moment. However, he was also deeply unimpressive, and the impression soon clearly dawned on most people even on his own benches that what he was setting out was a tactical position, to unite his party, oppose the government, but not completely come out against action. A total fudge, in other words. I came to the same conclusion as Nick-that Miliband simply doesn’t have the balls to make a great party leader or a great Prime Minister. Even if he wins in the short term, I think he will be the loser in the longer term.-“Wednesday 27th-Thursday 28th-Friday 29th August 2013,” The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_On Sunday evening, the results started to come in from the European elections-they were little short of catastrophic. We had lost every seat other than one in the south-east of England…Nick Clegg, meanwhile, felt shell-shocked. Over the weekend, he had planned to stay as leader, but now as he saw all of his former colleagues in the European Parliament losing their seats, he wondered if he should resign. He spoke privately to his wife, Miriam. They were staying with their children at Chevening, the country house put at the disposal of William Hague and Nick Clegg, just outside London. He also spoke at length to friends and advisers-Ryan Coetzee, Jonny Oates and Paddy Ashdown. **“We think you can still pull this party back. These losses are about being in coalition, and not about you. We cannot just change leader and think that the public are going to suddenly love us,”** Nick was told. Ken Clarke had delivered a similar message at one of his recent booze-fuelled lunches with the Deputy Prime Minister: **“Of course your party has lost votes. This is not about you. The Liberals are no longer getting the protest vote, and you have lost a lot of your left wing supporters too-inevitable if you are in coalition with us.”**_

_On Sunday night, the Liberal Democrat leader slept little. The truth was that Nick was struggling to know what the right thing to do for his party was. Even Paddy Ashdown was now sounding a more qualified note: **“Nick, I will support you whatever decision you decide to make.”**_

_On Monday, Nick Clegg awoke having made his decision: **“It is the loneliest decision you can ever make,”** he told me later. **“But I decided that I just cannot walk away. If I did that, I would regret it for ever-I would be the person who ducked out and left his party in the lurch. If I leave now, there will inevitably be a leadership election-it would be a massive and divisive distraction for our party. I’m staying. I think it’s the right thing to do.”**_

_Monday was a bank holiday, and I was at home. At 10.30, I was making some mid-morning toast and working through my red box, when a call came to me via the Downing Street switchboard. **“Minister, the Deputy Prime Minister on the line.”**_

_Nick sounded very tired, but not as down as I had feared. **“I’ve been through various ups and downs in the last twenty-four hours,”** he said. **“And at one stage I was seriously contemplating resigning. But I’ve always known five years of coalition would be tough, and I have come to the conclusion that just throwing in the towel now wouldn’t be the right thing for the party or the country. I don’t relish the next year, and I know that there will be a great deal of personal vilification in the media and elsewhere. But staying and fighting seems to be the right thing to do.”** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_I then turned to Nick, and said that before things broke up, we really need to have a discussion on child poverty. Cameron said, **“Look, I’m not sure whether there’s really much we can do on this. I think we should just spend more time consulting, and we’ll just decide it after the general election.”** Osborne said that it would be useful to have measures on education and worklessness but not on anything to do with income-he clearly wants to cut welfare spending after the next election and is worried that this will drive child poverty rates up. Nick and I put up pretty robust opposition and said we’d already conceded a lot and we couldn’t simply let the issue drift on beyond the summer. We left the meeting with some kind of fudge that Oliver Letwin and I would look at it again…Frustrating call with Oliver Letwin on child poverty. Spoke to Julian Astle briefly after the call and he told me that he’d spoken to the Chancellor’s special adviser, Neil O’Brien, who said the Tories weren’t interested in child poverty at all and didn’t want any serious measures… Cameron has totally lost control of his party on European matters and many of his MPs are determined to exit the EU and dump Cameron too. He’s now the tail being wagged by the Eurosceptic dog. If he’s not careful, one day these Eurosceptics will end his political career. Nick said later: **“Being in coalition with the Tories right now is like being trapped in a cage with a huge, mad gorilla…Cameron is within an inch of losing control of his party on both immigration and Europe.”** ….A pretty miserable day. Failure to get the Tories into the right place on child poverty. Failure to block Michael Gove from firing a very good head of Ofsted. The Tories running around like headless chickens over Europe. And (Chris) Grayling being a complete arse over his court costs recovery plan. It’s on days like this that I really do wonder whether we want to be in coalition with the Conservatives in the next parliament.-“Wednesday 29th January-Friday 31st January 2014”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Labour does not look like a potential party of government, while the Tory Party is increasingly lurching to the right and looks less and less each day like a potential future coalition partner for us. The Conservatives are now committed to: a referendum to leave the European Union; English votes for English laws in the most extreme and ill-considered way; dumping the Human Rights Act; carrying out the rest of the fiscal consolidation without any contribution from taxation; reducing benefits for people of working age, including those in work, in order to fund tax cuts for the top 10 per cent of earners; and a massive programme of cuts that would be bound to decimate public services. The more I think about this, the more difficult it is to see a coalition with the Tories after the next election. And do I really want to spend the most important ten years of my political life supporting a Conservative-led government-particularly in its second term when it would have moved well away from the compassionate Conservatism that Cameron originally espoused? If the answer to this question is no, then either the Lib Dems are going to be in opposition after the next election, come what may, or we would have to make common cause with a Labour Party led by Ed Miliband-and with the least impressive frontbench team that I can remember since the years of Michael Foot and Neil Kinnock. Neither of these things is a very enticing prospect…But Nick was still dubious: **“I have to tell you I find the prospect of being in coalition with the Tories again extremely difficult. I bloody hate these people,”** he said, banging the table three times. **“They really think they have a right to rule, and their attitude to the poor and disadvantaged is just something that I can never understand or accept, but I suppose you are right that we must consider this European referendum issue and whether it is manageable and what we could get in return.”** -“Saturday 4th October 2014- Sunday 3rd May 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_The next snapshot moment was the Rose Garden press conference a few weeks later. On the face of it, it as an event that epitomised the new politics I had campaigned for. What could better illustrate that we were doing things differently than presenting the two heads of the new government to the country, side by side on equal terms, after decades of single-party rule? The sun was shining and there was a palpable sense that we were doing something new and exciting….So, for me, showing that coalition could work and that difficult decisions could be taken collaboratively was an early priority-and setting a cooperative, positive tone in the Rose Garden seemed like the right thing to do….Some people have argued that I was mistaken in appearing too enthusiastic about the coalition at the outset. Far from appearing relaxed or positive in the Rose Garden, I should have made clear that the coalition was a cold, transactional arrangement, which I was only prepared to endure through gritted teeth. While I accept that to many people the event came across as excessively chummy-and symbolic of the loss of autonomy, for the smaller party in the coalition-I remain of the view that a grim, joyless announcement of its formation would have squandered the early momentum that is so important to any new government. Despite appearances, the Rose Garden press conference certainly wasn’t intended as some sepia-tinted bromance in which flighty sentiment trumped hard-headed political calculation. Indeed, David Cameron and I found ourselves grappling with serious disagreements within a matter of days. Instead, it was a sincere attempt to underline that a government composed of two parties could have big ambitions and expectations. Either way, it is clear that in the spinning zoetrope that depicted the story of the formation of the coalition, the Rose Garden press conference took on a much greater significance than I realised at the time….By the time of the third snapshot moment, I had completely lost control of the story that was being told about me. As thousands of protesters descended on Whitehall on 10 November 2010, I was due to go to an event at the National Liberal Club at the top end of Whitehall near Trafalgar Square. I was told by my protection team to duck down and lie flat on the back seat of my car as we travelled there, in case I was spotted by the protesters who were milling around in the Whitehall traffic. As my effigy was later being burned on Whitehall, to the chants of **“Clegg, Clegg, shame on you, shame on you for turning blue,”** I was smuggled back to the Cabinet Office like a guilty secret via an underground tunnel from the Ministry of Defence. In just seven months, rapturous crowds outside a pub in the West Midlands had morphed into an angry mob in the heart of Whitehall.-Politics: Between The Extremes, Nick Clegg_

* * *

**(Cameron BBC report)**

**_The real world_ **

_One happier side-effect of my illness is that it has given my deputy the space he’s been denied for too long. His series of pre-election features should become known as James’s Kitchen Nightmares. First Ed, now David have come to regret inviting the BBC, in the shape of my understudy, Mr Landale, to join them “at home.”_

_After the “scandal” of Ed’s two kitchens, we have the “shock” of Dave’s curious resignation “announcement.” As James and Dave stood chopping carrots together, chatting amiably about how long the PM wanted to stay in the top job, he took a new, radical and unsettling approach to a journalist’s question. He answered it fully and, it would appear, honestly: **“I’ve said I’ll stand for a full second term, but I think after that it will be time for new leadership…Terms are like Shredded Wheat-two are wonderful but three might just be too many.”**_

_My phone lights up with myriad versions of the same question: what on earth did he mean by that? Doesn’t he realize it will make him look like a lame duck and/or trigger a leadership beauty contest and/or make it appear that he’s taking an election win for granted? In vain I try arguing that his answer is not terribly surprising. He could hardly have said he would quit sooner or that he intended, like Mrs. T., to go “ **on and on and on.”** He probably felt he might as well answer the question now as later, since he’s bound to be asked it again. Perhaps being at home is softening my brain but I can’t see many people down the Dog and Duck saying, **“I can’t bloomin’ well vote Tory now I know there’ll be a Tory leadership contest in 2020.”**_

_But leaders rarely acknowledge their own political mortality except when in a weak position. Cameron might well have wanted to head off a post-election coup by his own backbenchers and any attempt to turn the referendum on the EU into a referendum on his continued leadership. However, musing about your retirement ain’t a great way of convincing people of your hunger for the top job.-“Monday 23 rd March 2015”, Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain’s Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_While Miliband’s movie was aired less than a week before polling day, Cameron made his first appearance in a Tory election broadcast at the very beginning of the campaign, on 30 March. He was shown on the touchline at a children’s football match, cheering on his son, as he said, **“like any parent.”**_ _Later, the camera moved in slow motion over a soft-focus tableau of the PM and his smiling wife Samantha, her hair slightly awry, as they ate a family meal with their children around an ordinary-looking table. The contrasting broadcasts reveal the weaknesses that Labour and the Conservatives saw in their own candidates for Prime Minister. Miliband’s **“portrait”** showed him in his suit and tie, striding purposefully towards his destiny, through the corridors of power and into the House of Commons. The struggle was to show a man with authority, a nation’s leader in waiting. For Cameron, however, all the effort was focused on showing him as an ordinary dad watching his son play football; “in touch” on the touchline. It is, of course, far easier to portray yourself as Prime Minister material if you are already Prime Minister. Grant Shapps says Cameron’s personal lead over Miliband became more important as the campaign drew to its close and voters had to make their decisions: **“The leadership issue crystallised the choice.”**_ _- Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_Yet, one week before the full-time election campaign began, David Cameron did more than Labour ever achieved to undermine his own chances of winning a second term as Prime Minister. In an unguarded moment during an interview with the BBC’s James Landale, a fellow Old Etonian, he confessed to having no desire to fight another election in 2020. **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat”** the Prime Minister said, while chopping vegetables in his kitchen with Landale. **“Two are wonderful, but three might just be too many.”** The election after next may seem like a distant prospect to many voters, but it is a highly dangerous thing for any political leader to put a shelf life on his or her career. What made it potentially fatal for Cameron was the fact that the Tories were fighting as the party with the **“long-term”** plan for the economy and the country. Cameron’s admission that he would be gone before the end of the next parliament (so a new Tory leader could be chosen) comprehensively undermined the message of stability and continuity that formed the basis of his offer to the electorate. How could there be a long-term plan when, for the Prime Minister, there was no “long term”?_

_Craig Oliver, the Downing Street communications director, was beside himself after the PM’s gaffe. He knew how badly it would play out in the media and left his boss in no doubt about how he felt. Lynton Crosby was also dismayed. He feared that Labour would seize on Cameron’s lapse and that it would become the key question of the entire election. And all because the PM was not disciplined enough to dodge a journalist’s question over his own future during a friendly television interview at home in his kitchen. A **“sheepish”** Cameron knew how dangerous his mistake could prove. One senior source says: **“It could have been huge. It could have been defining in the campaign. But Labour completely failed to grab it.”** -Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_On the Monday of the last week of the Parliament, the BBC aired an interview with the Prime Minister in which he was asked how long he wanted to remain in Number 10. He made it clear that he would stay for a full second term, **“but I think after that it will be time for a new leadership.”** (He added: **“I’m not saying all prime ministers necessarily go mad or even go mad at the same rate.”) “Terms are like shredded wheat”** , he said: **“two are wonderful, but three might just be too many.”** The interviewer, fellow Old Etonian James Landale, had not been tipped-the-wink to ask the question, and the story caused consternation among Cameron’s aides and surprised his media team. The aim of the interview had been for the Prime Minister to rule out standing down after any proposed EU referendum, not to announce that he would do so by the end of the Parliament. **“Sometimes”** , Landale said, **“you ask a politician a question and they answer. It’s a rare occasion.”** The filming had been done on the preceding Saturday, but Craig Oliver had not been present and the Conservatives did not make their own audio recording of the interview. The party initially tried to argue that the Prime Minister was-as planned-simply ruling out standing down after the referendum, but the transcript of the interview made that line untenable…David Cameron was in his tenth year as party leader and fifth as Prime Minister, so was already reasonably well known to a voting public, who, by the time of the general election, were likely to have formed an opinion of him. For media detractors such as Kevin Maguire, **“cynical”** Cameron was **“the posh boy who vowed to mend what he called a Broken Britain”** (Daily Mirror, 30 March). The Prime Minister appeared keen to counter such criticisms through favourable press coverage. On one occasion, when he was supposedly having a **“day off”** campaigning, he was photographed bottle-feeding a small farm animal and the image widely disseminated by various newspapers ( **“Lamb Cam! PM with Lamb”** , Daily Mail, 6 April.) An informal-looking Cameron was also interviewed alongside colleague, friend and potential successor George Osborne **(“The Blue Brothers”** , The Sun, 1 April.) Following on from her high-profile role during the last campaign, Samantha Cameron made prominent appearances in newspapers sympathetic to the Conservatives. The Sun published a two-page spread in which the Prime Minister’s wife talked about their late son **(“SAM CAM.I.AM.”** , 6 April.) The impact of caring for their disabled child informed the headlines of both her interview with the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph in which family photographs of the couple’s children were used to illustrate the features ( **“Dave and Sam: Our Crisis Over Ivan”** , Daily Mail, 6 April; **“The Strain Of Caring for Ivan Took Dave and Me to the Limit”** , Daily Telegraph, 6 April.)-The British General Election Of 2015, Philip Cowley & Dennis Kavanagh_

_Cameron himself has inadvertently raised the stakes on his own future in an interview six weeks before, on 23 March. James Landale, a fellow Old Etonian and the BBC deputy political editor standing in for the sick Nick Robinson, had put an awkward question to Cameron, and he had answered it. As an aide says, “ **James had been very charming and beguiling all day, and had asked him earlier by a sports pitch what his personal intentions for the future were. Cameron parried it, but when he came back to the house, Sam was there and he finds it harder to conceal the full truth with her present.”**_ _Cameron blurted out that **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat-two are wonderful but three might just be too many.”** The admission that if he wins the general election he will not stand again, even if widely known in the Westminster village, sends shock waves through the whole political system, and as a disclosure coming on the eve of the campaign it is inept, if not worse. He is only being honest in admitting that he will not stand again, and feels it is the right thing to say, but it raises the question: when will he go? In 2019? 2018? 2017? He hopes his ad_ _mission of the elephant in the room might reduce pressure on him to go. This is naïve. It has intensified it.- Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_I had agreed to do an “at home” broadcast feature with the BBC’s James Landale-an opportunity to cover politics, life, the bigger picture, while hopefully showing people the real me. We were filmed watching Elwen play football for the Chadlington under-10s, and did the interview in my kitchen, as we chopped lettuce and Samantha pottered about in the background. Would I stand for a third term, James asked casually. **“No”** I replied without hesitating. I explained that I was standing for a full second term, that I had a lot more to do, but that there comes a time in politics when a fresh pair of eyes is needed. I cited the talents of Theresa May, George Osborne and Boris Johnson. **“Terms are like Shredded Wheat-two are wonderful, but three might just be too many”** I said, referencing the 1980s advert. I thought I had done the right thing. I had been honest. I had confirmed, despite suggestions to the contrary, that I would serve a full second term. But I was clear that I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of some of my predecessors, whose premierships were cautionary tales of the dangers of clinging on.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_David Cameron was never a deeply ideological politician, and while this sometimes meant that his policy instincts lacked a reliable compass, it also meant that he was temperamentally suited to being a leader of a two-party government where the Prime Minister has to both act as a party leader and be capable of being seen to act beyond party. David Cameron was once said to have claimed that he wanted to be Prime Minister because he **“would be good at it.”** In many ways he was. Work was efficiently dispatched and decisions were quickly taken. Meetings started on time and the best-briefed person in them was usually-not always, but usually-the Prime Minister. David Cameron liked efficiency and focus at all times-and he expected this from all his ministers. These days, senior politicians are watched extraordinarily closely by the media, their colleagues and the public. Every blemish is magnified a thousand times. But being Prime Minister is not an easy job, and I think it fair to record that David Cameron’s confident self-assessment was an accurate one. The Prime Minister was often at his worst on the small issues and the issues that upset the right wing of his party and the media. He was at his best on the really big, non-political issues-on Syria, on Northern Ireland, and in dealing with crises._

_I remember in 2014 hearing the Prime Minister sum up impressively at Cabinet on a couple of particularly difficult and delicate international issues. **“This is a man who looks at home as Prime Minister”** I wrote in my diary that night. **“Can I see Ed Miliband beating him? No. Cameron does not look or feel like a one-term Prime Minister.”** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

* * *

**Alastair**

_Cameron arrived, Samantha clearly pregnant. There was a mild honeypot effect, though he didn’t fill the room. Kate Garvey said she thought Osborne filled it more…I went upstairs and Kate pointed out Cameron on the arm of a sofa. His wife gave him a little nudge as I went over and he stood up, keen to talk…He also wanted to have a chat about his wife and kids. I suggested he make an approach to the PCC around the birth to sort some kind of deal. He said he had posed with his son for local media when writing to save a school and they kept using it. I said that is what they did, they found something that gave them a spurious justification for any intrusion in the future.-“Friday 16 th December 2005”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_I got home at 11. Fiona said Maggie Rae had been on saying that she was fixing a dinner for TB/CB, me and Fiona to have a proper session with Diana. Maggie said she had said to Diana she was thinking of inviting me. **“Oh yes, I do like Alastair,”** Diana said. God bless her…TB said he was worried about us seeing Diana, with or without CB and Fiona. Anji (Hunter) was against, and worried it would get out. I was dead keen, and probably for the wrong reasons. It would be fascinating and I’d love to know what she was up to….TB was still fretting about Diana. I spoke to Maggie Rae, who said she had said she was terribly excited about seeing me. I said she said that to all the boys….Then off to collect Cherie and head for dinner at Maggie and Alan’s. I think Cherie and Fiona were resigned to me and TB behaving like a couple of teenagers, but TB was in a very jumpy mood on the way, really worried that it would get out, and that it would spark a whole host of enquiries we wouldn’t be able to deal with. Most of all, probably, what was I doing there? Maggie’s answer was that she wanted me there and I’m not sure he liked that much. We arrived, and he wanted the door to be open so I got out while Terry (Blair’s driver) drove a little bit down the road and turned back. I stood at the door while they got out and he raced up and into the house. It was a very ordinary house in an ordinary street in Hackney, and I was confident nobody had seen him arrive. She was already there, and looking more beautiful than ever. She had a magical quality that was almost there in pictures, but strongly so in the flesh. She was wearing a lightweight black trouser suit, almost like a man’s dinner suit, and a white silk blouse, quite high heels, white pearl earrings, lips heavily glossed, hair looked a bit longer. We discovered we shared a loathing of cats and Maggie’s five cats running in and out and always making a beeline for one of us became a running joke. The atmosphere was a little bit forced at first and I think we were all struck by what an abnormal meeting it was, and I resorted to humour early on, telling her about TB’s paranoia about the neighbours spotting anyone, and saying I had tried to assure him we were now in the hands of the best media operation in the world, that our operation was hopeless compared to hers, and if she wanted it quiet, it was quiet, so he had no need to worry. TB couldn’t work out whether to flirt with her, or treat her like he would a visiting dignitary. He ended up doing a bit of both, but it was not comfortable.-“Monday 6th January 1997-Wednesday 8th January 1997-Thursday 9th January 1997-Tuesday 21st January 1997”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_We started off upstairs in the sitting room, and she was very much the centre of attention. He said how well she had done in Angola, and how impressed he was at the way she had redefined her role. There was a fair amount of small talk about her life, what she did when she stayed in, the kind of mail she got, likes and dislikes. She said she had made lots of mistakes and tried to learn from them. She was overwhelmed by all the media attention at first, and shocked at some of the cruelty, but said she decided to take them head on. She had met just about every editor now. She said some of them were quite likeable, but she hated the rat pack. She then said **“Of course you used to say one or two not nice things about me,”** and there were mock gasps around the place, like Cherie saying, **“Oh Alastair, how could you?”** I remember Charlie Rae (royal reporter) telling me she used to get upset by things I wrote and I thought he was just winding me up, but clearly she did. I said I don’t know if it helps, but I feel very bad about it now, and my only excuse was that I was writing in ignorance. Later, when the two of us were walking down the stairs to the kitchen for dinner, she reminded me I had also had a go at her on What The Papers Say. I said **is it all forgiven?** And she said **yes.** She was a curious mix of fun (with a lovely girlish laugh, a beautiful smile and the ability to take the mickey out of herself) and insecurity. There were moments when I sensed she felt the conversation was getting too political, or into areas she did not feel comfortable with, and there would be an almost physical reaction, pushing back into her chair so that she literally withdrew from the conversation. She could also, suddenly, look terribly, terribly sad, just look at the floor, or a fixed point on the table, just for a few seconds or so and then, again with some physical movement, she would come back. She was very flirtatious, big on eye contact, though Fiona said later that was less the case with women. At the dinner table, I three times felt a brush against my leg and couldn’t work out whether it was accident, deliberate or, on one occasion, one of the cats. Her self-obsession came through too, or at least an obsession about how she was seen. She said to TB at one point **“You have to touch people in pictures. They can take a lot from you, but they can never take away the pictures.”** Later, to the astonishment of Fiona and me, who had been at the earlier discussion on campaign themes, he said that **“compassion”** would be the key theme of our campaign, and we had a lot to learn from her. I pointed out this was the man who never gave to beggars.-“Tuesday 21st January 1997”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_She talked about the boys (Prince William and Prince Harry), said they got very nervous at times, but said they had no trouble from other kids at school. If there was any aggro, it came from parents. She clearly felt something for (Prince) Charles. She said she had spoken to him today and he had sounded a bit depressed. **“I said he should go away to Italy for a year and paint.”** Later, she and I were alone in the kitchen because I had said, as a joke when talking about my teetotalism, how wonderful it would be to be able to say Diana made me a cup of tea, and she said **“Why not?”** While she was looking for things in the kitchen, she said she didn’t think Charles would ever be King. **“I just have that hunch.”** I asked about William, and she said she would have some influence over what happened to him and she was clearly determined he would be King. She didn’t quite say they should go straight from the Queen to William, but it is what she was getting at. She felt there had to be a cutting down of the monarchy. Once the Queen Mum died, it should be Queen, (Prince) Philip, Charles and William as the main people, others less involved. When she did go, it would be like taking a leg from the table. You could make do with a three-legged table for a while, but not for long. She despised some of the courtiers. She said yes, they had influence. But that didn’t scare her. What scared her was that people could be so nasty. Over dinner, TB was hinting at her having a more developed role, but she didn’t bite. He said the monarchy was clearly in a bit of trouble and there would inevitably be a debate on a new modernising monarchy, but it would have to come from within. He was properly fawning by now. He said the British people are capable of great rebellion. He said **“You tap deep into the psychology of the nation.”** I said **“You probably have the power to save or destroy the monarchy.”** TB said **“If they do not change or modernise in some way, there is a risk the people will turn against them. They have to be part of a new Britain.”** This was the hint about her taking on a new role, but she didn’t bite at all._

_We asked her for advice on pictures and she said TB should go to meet the down-and-outs on the Bullring, go to the London Lighthouse to meet Aids victims, or visit a hospital and have his picture taken with children with no hair. She spoke, in fairly calculating terms, of how she had **“gone for the caring angle”**. But she also saw it as her work, to make people feel happier and better, and to support causes which didn’t always get strong support. Fiona, CB and I were now asking pretty direct questions and she was giving pretty direct answers. Did she have an agenda against them? No. Did she think Charles would be King? Cherie asked that direct. No. Did she like Philip? No. She felt they had to change fundamentally and she didn’t think they were capable. No matter how many times they **“relaunch”** , it won’t work without fundamental change, she said. **“I’m fascinated by what Charles will do,”** she said. **“I’m with the public on that one. I want to know if he will marry.”** She helped clear the table, very **“mucking in”** she said, laughing, and Alan Haworth said **“Imagine a lad from Blackburn like me having his plate cleaned away by Princess Diana.”** TB kind of enjoyed himself but I also got the feeling he was glad to leave. On the way out, he said to me not to do or say anything he wouldn’t do. He said to her **“He’s quite clever, you know.” “You went all the way to France to get him,”** she said. **“And it’s ruined our lives,”** said Fiona._

_After he had gone, she and Maggie were talking gyms and colonics and rubbish for a while. She said she never drank. She went to the gym but she swapped times and dates to avoid the press. She had a stalking case coming in court and she hoped she would be able to get in there and pan the press. Fiona said, **but isn’t it the case that there are times you have used them?** And she kind of half bought that but said she was in a no-win position. I said she was brilliant at pictures and I asked her, half in jest, to get in touch with me if she had any good picture ideas for the campaign. She said she might just do that. She said the first pictures of the campaign would be the most important. There was a slight cynicism about the way she talked constantly about her pictures. I told her about the speech I made to the staff, when I said all the pressure was on TB, and our job was to help relieve it for him, and she went **“aaaaah”** in a real, mickey-taking way. She ate more than I thought she would, easily as much as the other women-a potato, egg and mushroom starter, poached chicken, bread and butter pudding and fruit. When she left, Cherie kissed her on both cheeks and then Diana looked at me and said **“God knows what this man will do.”** I shook her by the hand, and she giggled. I loved her laugh. I loved her analysis of the press. She was funny when she chose to be. TB had gone back to the House, and Fiona, CB and I got a minicab home. They felt she was tragic. She would be laughing one second and then the next her head was pointing to one side, and her face a picture of sadness.-“Tuesday 21st January 1997”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_The quote of the day was from Maggie Rae to Fiona. She said when she was cooking last night, when we were all upstairs, Alan came down to the kitchen, and she asked how it was going. He said **“It’s fine because Alastair is cutting through the crap and Tony’s behaving like a dickhead, telling her how wonderful she was in Angola.”…** Got home late and Fiona was on the phone to Maggie, who said Diana had written and called and said she would like to help us if she could. I spoke to Maggie, who said she’d said I was sweet and funny and she would like to repeat the exercise. Maggie said why didn’t Fiona and I go and see her at the Palace? I said it might be more fun on my own. Fiona seemed worried about it, but she accepted if she somehow let it be known she was supportive, that could be very helpful. Diana had said to Maggie she had thought about it a lot, she knew it would be difficult but if she could help, she would like to. I said to Fiona **“What do you think she’s after?” “You,”** she said….I drafted a letter to Diana saying how much we had enjoyed meeting her, suggesting we meet again to carry on the discussion, and hinting I was aware of what she had said to Maggie. Fiona was very wary of the whole thing, and TB said **“Be careful, she is very cunning and manipulative.”** We agreed it had been quite an evening. He said I didn’t have to drop him in it so spectacularly when he was giving all that bullshit about compassion and I said he didn’t even give to beggars. He put on a cockney accent, said **“There I was chatting up this bird and my mate drops me in it ‘cos he fancies her rotten. I clocked that one.”** -“Wednesday 22nd January-Thursday 23rd January-Friday 24th January 1997”, The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

* * *

**(Final Cabinet)**

_The final Cabinet-we’ve all agreed to troop over together. Met in Nick’s office with Danny, Ed Davey, Alistair Carmichael, Jo Swinson, Don Foster and Simon Wright, Nick’s PPS. We then went down to the bike racks-where the Cabinet Office connects with Downing Street. We were kept waiting there by press officers, and eventually Vince joined us, wearing his trademark hat. Nick arrived, and we all walked down Downing Street together, and were photographed outside the famous front door._

_The Cabinet table was covered with beer bottles and round containers of Nick’s Yorkshire crisps. Each Cabinet minister had a bottle in front of him from Wychwood Brewery- **“Co-ale-ition”** beer. This was described as **“Indispensable Political Ale”** and on the back of it was a picture of the Cabinet and a caption: **“An unconventional pairing, this experimental beer has astonished doubters and exceeded expectations. Time for some creative thinking with this carefully crafted beer, hints of oak and zesty lemon deliver a truly distinctive refreshing flavour that lasts the distance.”** I noted that the “best before” date was October 2015! Nick’s contribution was Henderson’s Yorkshire Sauce crisps-named **“Coalition Crunch.”** A photographer dashed round the room taking photos-goodness knows what future historians will think when they look at the table and see it crammed with beer bottles.-“Tuesday 24th March 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Cameron began, talking about how many Cabinet meetings we had had since May 2015, mentioning some of the issues that we had discussed, and then saying how proud he was of the coalition government. Nick spoke next, and made some positive comments about working with the Conservatives. Cameron, realising that he had said little about his coalition colleagues, then said that he would like to thank Nick personally for all that he had done to keep the coalition on the road. It is pretty staggering that the coalition has not only gone on for five years but done so in a very positive and constructive way, so that we are leaving this last Cabinet meeting as colleagues and in some ways friends, rather than as political enemies dying to get away from each other._

_George Osborne made a few comments about the economy-including revealing that today’s inflation number had come out at 0.0 per cent! George said this just proved that the Labour campaign on the cost of living had come to **“precisely nothing.”** There was a round of laughter-perhaps more than the joke merited. _

_We then had three debates-the first was a presentation by Nick Clegg and Jeremy Hunt on progress on mental health policy. Then a government implementation achievements presentation from Oliver (Letwin) and Danny. I said, **“Oliver and Danny’s presentation reminds us of how much we have achieved since May 2010. This government was founded to deal with the economic problems that our country faced, but it has done much more than that. We should be particularly proud of the reforms that we have made to education and welfare, and changes such as equal marriage, which have done so much to challenge prejudice and discrimination in our society. We should also be proud that we have managed to deliver the 0.7 per cent target on overseas development assistance-in spite of the challenging spending environment.”**_

_I then went on to say, **“I think we should all give credit to the Prime Minister for the fantastic way that he has led this government since 2010.”** Tory Cabinet ministers perked up at this apparently striking endorsement. I continued: **“The Prime Minister is to be commended for leading the coalition government so brilliantly, and for proving to the whole country how effective coalition governments can be and how much better they are than unstable single-party governments.”** Cue laughter. I finished: “ **I hope that this has paved the way for many more coalition governments in the future.”** Cameron smiled and said, **“I suppose I will have to take praise, wherever it comes from!”**_

_There was a final, brief discussion on foreign affairs and the progress against ISIS in Syria and Iraq. And then there were some final pleasantries and the whole thing was over. In some ways, a little bit of an anti-climax. Everybody collected up their papers, beer and crisps. Some thoughtful person provided small bags to hide the beer and crisps from Downing Street snappers. I normally return to the Cabinet Office through the connecting corridor. But on this occasion I felt it right to leave by the front door, and I strolled down the corridor to the front door of No. 10, and out into the street, with all the waiting photographers.-“Tuesday 24 th March 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Both Labour and the Conservatives had already formed teams to negotiate with other parties, particularly the Lib Dems, in the event of a hung parliament. The prospect of such a coalition caused some resentment among staff in Number 10. **“They (the Lib Dems) will lose a lot of votes and seats but they are the only people here who can be sure of returning after 7 May (2015),”** said a member of Cameron’s staff. On 24 March, Lord Falconer and Tim Livesey handed the Cabinet Secretary (Jeremy Heywood) their plans for reorganising Whitehall departments and their policy proposals if Labour won the election.-The British General Election Of 2015, Philip Cowley and Dennis Kavanaugh_

_I had a brief meeting to say goodbye to the excellent civil servants in the DPM policy team, and then headed off to the Commons to sit in on the last Deputy Prime Minister’s Questions. It was a rather subdued affair, in spite of a good turnout of Lib Dem MPs. At ten past twelve, the whole thing was over. Nick’s last appearance in the Commons as Deputy Prime Minister._

_Tomorrow is my last “real” day as a minister._

_It is going to be a sad day, and I am already suffering withdrawal symptoms from the very thought of not having a massive number of decisions on interesting issues to take over the weeks and months ahead. I am desperate for us to get back into government so that we can carry on the work we have started.-“Tuesday 24 th March 2015”, The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_By now, there had been a lot of “lasts” in March, but Tuesday 24 March felt like a pretty big day in the history of the coalition-it was the day of the last Cabinet meeting._

_I was at my desk in the Cabinet Office at my regular time of 6.45 a.m., before making my way to the Downing Street cafeteria for some burnt bacon. At 9.30 a.m., all the Liberal Democrat Cabinet ministers met in Nick Clegg’s office in Dover House so that we could go over to Cabinet together. Most of us were there-Danny Alexander, Ed Davey, Alistair Carmichael, Jo Swinson (who could at times attend Cabinet as Equalities Minister), Don Foster (our Chief Whip,) and Simon Wight, Nick Clegg’s parliamentary private secretary. We walked through the Cabinet Office corridors and down the main staircase and came out by the bike racks, where Downing Street meets the back wall of the Cabinet Office. There we waited for Nick Clegg and for Vince Cable-who was wearing his trademark hat. We then trooped up Downing Street together and paused for a final photograph outside the famous front door of No. 10._

_We were right on time for the Cabinet, and most Conservative ministers were already seated at the famous table, which was covered from end to end with beer bottles and plastic containers full of crisps. We had been warned by Nick Clegg about this the previous day: David Cameron had asked a local brewery in his constituency to produce a “Co-ale-ition” beer, to be presented to each member of the Cabinet. On the back of the label was a photograph of the full Cabinet and underneath this was the caption: **“An unconventional pairing, this experimental beer has astonished doubters and exceeded expectations. Time for some creative thinking with this carefully crafted beer; hints of oak and zesty lemon deliver a truly distinctive refreshing flavour that lasts the distance.”** The sell-by date, I noted, was October 2015._

_Not to be outdone, Nick Clegg also had a present for the Cabinet members-a container of Henderson’s Yorkshire Sauce crisps, named “Coalition Crunch.” It was a nice gesture from both party leaders at this final Cabinet. A photographer dashed around the table to record the occasion-and who knows what future historians will think when they see the table covered in beer bottles.- Coalition: The Inside Story Of the Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_David Cameron then started the meeting. He reflected on all that had happened and much that had been achieved since 2010. He seemed a little nervous and even a little emotional. He didn’t say much about the contribution of his Liberal Democrat colleagues. Nick Clegg responded, speaking confidently and proudly, but with no hint of emotion. He was generous and gracious about his time working with the Conservatives in government-prompting a further, brief, contribution from David Cameron who also commented on how productive the coalition of two separate parties had been._

_And then George Osborne gave us an update on the economy. Being George Osborne, there had to be a joke: **“Colleagues will be interested to know that the latest inflation number for the UK has just been released. Inflation is now 0.0 per cent. So there you have it-Labour has been campaigning for two years on the cost of living and now it has all come to precisely nothing.”** There was a loud round of laughter-perhaps rather more than the joke merited. _

_We then had three discussions: one on mental health policy, led by Nick Clegg and Jeremy Hunt, a second on implementation achievements, led by Oliver Letwin and Danny Alexander, and a third on the situation in Syria and Iraq. I decided to make a few comments in the debate on implementation achievements. I never believed in speaking for the sake of it at Cabinet, but this was the last chance to contribute, and having been in at both the end of the government and at its beginning I wanted to say something._

**_“Oliver and Danny’s presentation reminds us how much we have achieved since May 2010. This government was formed to address the country’s economic problems, and on that agenda we really have succeeded in turning the corner. But our record is not just about the economy. We should be particularly proud of the reforms which we have made in areas such as education and pensions, and of social reforms such as equal marriage, which have done much to challenge prejudice and discrimination in our society. We should also be proud to have honoured our commitment to the poorest people in the world, even in a time of austerity. This is the first real coalition in UK history. I think we should also give credit to the Prime Minister for the fantastic way that he has led this government since 2010.”_ ** _At this point, a number of Conservative ministers looked surprised and perked up, and David Cameron glanced down the table at me._

**_“Yes,”_ ** _I continued. **“The Prime Minister should be commended for leading the coalition so brilliantly, and for proving to the whole country how effective coalition governments can be and how much better they are than weak single-party governments. He has paved the way for many more coalitions in the future.”** My final words were drowned out by both laughter and jeers._

_The Prime Minister himself laughed and shrugged his shoulders. **“I suppose I will have to take praise, wherever it comes from.”** -_ _ Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws _

_When he got back to his office, Nick Clegg felt more positive than for some weeks. **“I’m proud of what we have done in government. We are basically leaving the country in good order. I somehow didn’t feel emotional at Cabinet today, but I know that we’ve done the right thing for the country. We’ve delivered a five-year coalition-something that many people said was impossible. God knows if we’ll be rewarded by the electorate, but I think we deserve to be. I’m not going to miss most of the Tories, but there are some that I really like and might stay in touch with-Osborne, funnily enough, in spite of our rows. David Cameron, I guess-after all, we’ve been through quite a lot together. Oliver Letwin, with his decency and his wonderful professorial quality. Ken Clarke. Definitely Ken Clarke-he is truly brilliant. But what I will really miss is the officials and advisers who I have worked with-they are a great bunch.**_

**_‘Anyway, I am really looking forward to the election campaign. We have something important to say, and now I just want to get out there and say it.”_ ** _He would not have long to wait.- Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government:2010-2015, David Laws_

_Cameron remains close to Clegg till the very end, although the relationship is severely tested when the Lib Dems realise that the Conservatives are making a full onslaught on their marginal seats. On election night, Cameron sends him a text wishing him luck: **“This democracy lark is a nerve-jangling thing”** it reads. They both believe that there is a strong likelihood that they will be in government together after the election. At the end of one of their final bilateral meetings, they ask officials and aides to leave the room. **“We talked in a relatively perfunctory way about what might follow. It was all rather British”** says Clegg. **“We’re going to have to leave that until our next coalition,”** they joked, discussing unresolved issues. Cameron is far more positive than any of his Cabinet about the prospect of a future coalition government. He thinks Clegg is a bit naïve and can be self-indulgent, but he also has a genuine affection and respect for him. Clegg has defied the sceptics in his party who said that the coalition would not endure, or who argue that they should come out of it in the final months and fight alone. To do so, he says, would hand even more of the kudos for the government’s successes to the Conservatives, and call into question all the sacrifices that have been made.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_The final Quad is held on 9 March, just before the Budget. The final Cabinet meeting comes two weeks later on 24 March. There is a full agenda, beginning with mental health, introduced by Clegg and Jeremy Hunt. Then Oliver Letwin, the company secretary of the coalition, gives a Panglossian survey of the coalition government’s achievements. Then follows a discussion on ISIS, Syria and Iraq. All know his seminal role in the coalition._

_Cameron has been giving some thought to the final Cabinet. While out on a run, he comes up with the idea of concluding it with a small celebratory drinks party. When he is sent the proposed Cabinet agenda to pursue in his red box a few days before, he writes in the margins, **“I’ve got quite a nice idea: let’s get everyone a beer from the constituency brewery.”** His idea is to have the meeting in the afternoon or evening so that everyone could relax together. Clegg is enthusiastic about the idea and says: **“I’d like to get some crisps from my constituency too.”** Crowded diaries do not permit any deviation from the normal meeting time, however, so all attendees are presented at the usual morning meeting with the beers with a label saying, **“Co-ale-ition. An unconventional pairing…that lasts the distance.”** The beer is produced by Wychwood Brewery in Cameron’s constituency and is accompanied by a pot from Clegg of crisps made by Henderson’s of Sheffield. It falls some way short of the bronze medal that Churchill gave all members of the coalition government in 1945, but the gesture is still appreciated. They are all conscious, at least a little, of the historic significance of their surviving five years of coalition government together: **“We’ve come so far, and we should be proud of what we’ve done together”** Cameron says to them. He and Clegg are not the only ones around the table expecting to be back together in six weeks. Both parties have had teams working informally on a new coalition agreement, the secrecy dictated mostly by the knowledge that such plans are abhorrent to the wings of both parties._

_Within days, though, the gloves are off. Clegg vents months of frustration at Osborne when, on 5 April, he describes him as **“a very dangerous man with a very dangerous plan and I’ll do everything in my power to stop it.”** After months of phoney war, the real fight at last has begun.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon & Peter Snowdon_

_Every “last of this Parliament” might be the last of my career. My last cabinet. My last PMQs._

_That last cabinet brought our time in coalition to a close. It wasn’t the end people had predicted-a fiery collapse in the early weeks, or a bitter mid-term decoupling. It was the end of a full five-year term, and a fairly harmonious one at that. I had arranged for the Wychwood Brewery in my constituency to produce a special “Co-ale-ition” for each minister, and Henderson’s in Nick Clegg’s constituency provided “Coalition Crunch” crisps.- For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

**(Cummings)**

_Dominic Cummings was bright, serious, very close to Michael Gove, and highly influential in the Department for Education. He was one of those rare advisers who is immersed in both policy and politics. And he had a restless desire to challenge, reform and shake things up. In this, he was very much a Goveite. When he spoke to me once of a change he and Michael Gove wanted to make to the school accountability system, he described it as **“Michael’s terrorist demand.”** That is how he saw politics._ _As well as being bright, Dom Cummings was also blunt, rude, impatient and tactless, and had a low opinion of most civil servants, most ministers, and most certainly the Prime Minister and his deputy. He once came to see me to complain about Nick Clegg’s involvement in some policy issue. **“This isn’t personal or political,”** he said, slouched in a seat in my office, dressed in slightly scruffy casual clothes. **“I don’t like Clegg, but I think Cameron and No. 10 are complete muppets as well. They have no idea what they are doing. Cameron hasn’t a clue about Education. He just wakes up one morning and says, “I need a headline. Give me a headline.” And he screws things up for us. We have to keep these people well away. Our policy is to tell No. 10 absolutely nothing about what we are doing. If we tell them, they always fuck it up-leaking it out in a half-baked way and getting most of it wrong.”** The feeling was mutual-Dom Cummings was disliked and distrusted both in 10 Downing Street and in Nick Clegg’s office. His intelligence was respected, but he was regarded as a destructive personality who risked veering out of control…Rows between the Education Secretary and Nick Clegg were not unusual, but their frequency and intensity increased markedly from autumn 2013 onwards. Rows between Michael Gove and other Conservative ministers were not unknown before September 2013, but afterwards they, too, increased in frequency and ferocity…What was equally unusual was that the previously very close relationship with David Cameron also came under strain…David Cameron hated disagreeing with his Education Secretary, and in the early part of the parliament he had more or less contracted education policy out entirely to his trusted lieutenant. But the Prime Minister now thought that his friend was creating too many rows in government, and was beginning to unnecessarily create enemies of former allies…..That morning Nick Clegg and the Prime Minister spoke. **“Look,”** said Nick Clegg, **“I’m not apologising for the row over free schools. I am sick and tired of what Gove and Cummings are doing on free school meals, on knife crime, and in other areas. And I am sick and tired of the vicious personal attacks. It has to end.”**_

_The Prime Minister said that he understood the concerns, adding that this was exactly why his former press boss, Andy Coulson, had vetoed Dom Cummings working for the government in May 2010. David Cameron said that he had only relented because Michael Gove had been under huge pressure because of early mishandling by the department of the scaling back of the “building schools for the future” programme, and he had argued strongly that he needed his former adviser to sort the problems out. **“I should have said no,”** said the Prime Minister. “ **Cummings has a Rasputin-like influence on Michael-and it’s all for the worse.”** -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_After he (Michael Gove) had finished speaking, he asked who else wanted to comment. From the far end of the table, a scruffy, unshaven figure put up his hand to speak-Dom Cummings. **“When I first came to this department in 2011, I said we should sack half the staff. I was told it would be impossible, and the department would collapse. Well, we have done it, and who actually has noticed? Now I think we need to go even further. We should sack all the incompetent people. There are far too many white men in their middle fifties in this department who are no good.”** At this moment, a lot of white, mid-fifties men around the table looked down at their papers. But Mr Cummings was not finished. **“They should be sacked and replaced by young women in their twenties and thirties. Oh, and one last thing. We need to stop the stupid initiatives from No. 10 and from Clegg.”** I groaned, loudly._

_At the end of the meeting, I walked straight out to go back to my office. Dom Cummings followed me into the lift. There was a moment of silence, and then he said: **“How are things?”** I replied: **“They’d be fine, if you would only stop briefing against the policies of this department.”** The lift door opened and I got out. From behind me, I heard: **“If people in the Deputy Prime Minister’s Office think I’ve “gone rogue”, they ain’t seen nothing yet. I intend to use my forthcoming freedom over the weeks and months ahead.”**_

_It was not a promising end to the year. -Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws_

_Nick Clegg told me later that he had spoken to Cameron about the leaks and briefings against him on both childcare ratios and the Book Trust. He said he was blaming Michael (Gove) and in particular his adviser Dom Cummings- **“Give me the evidence on Cummings,”** Cameron said, perking up. **“I would love to sack Cummings. Just give me the evidence.”…** Went over to 4 Millbank with Matt Sanders at ten past one, and sat in the studio to listen to an awful lot of tosh being reported from Dom Cummings-who is going on the record but had already emailed his comments over, rather than giving an interview. I couldn’t help spluttering with amazement as I sat listening to Dom’s comments. He really was laying into the whole policy in the most extraordinary way, and also frankly making stuff up by saying that the department was opposed to the policy, it wasn’t costed, etc., etc., etc. All rather poisonous. I went in hard against Cummings and called his comments **“complete and utter balls of the first order.”** The BBC reported it as me knocking down his comments quite hard…._

_Cameron has agreed to have a meeting with Gove and (Jeremy) Heywood, in which he will threaten to bring in the police if there are further leaks. Michael is now endangering his own relationship with Cameron, who is apparently furious…As we were talking, the news came through that Cummings has leaked further internal DfE papers on free school meals to The World at One. I’m now going to have to waste a huge amount of time going through all the documentation to knock down Cummings’s lunatic story. Very, very infuriating. Cummings has also now given an on-the-record quote: **“Clegg has been lying about the announcement from the start to cover up his abuse of taxpayers’ money for his personal ends. Gove was trying to safeguard taxpayers’ money but Clegg ignored him. All the documents should be turned over to the Select Committee immediately…”** Absolutely extraordinary and unbelievable that this little shit is behaving in this way. A pack of lies…..At 9.15a.m. Michael phoned me, sounding defensive: **“David, I just don’t know where to begin. Look, this is very difficult for me. Dom seems to be in a place where he thinks he’s helping me. He often thinks he knows my interests better than I do, but I disagree with him. In fact, it’s making our relationship difficult, No. 10 is upset with me, and Henry Dimbleby (friend of Gove’s) is also fed up. But I do find this very difficult. Dom is an old friend of mine and it’s difficult to control him. However, I must make clear that his position of universal infant school meals is not the same as mine. I will explain my position to Dom and ask him to desist.”**_

_I responded bluntly: **“I understand that Dom is quite an independent-minded person, but frankly he’s still your adviser. You have to take responsibility for this. If Matt Sanders (Clegg’s adviser) left the government and started briefing against everything you’d been doing in the DfE, you would be furious and you would hold Nick Clegg to account. You really have to get a grip on Cummings over this.”….** Michael said that he understood that and he was happy for us to discuss these matters behind the scenes. But he kept on emphasising that he couldn’t control Dom Cummings. He said, **“Dom will be Dom. You know what he’s like. I have spoken to Dom and I spoke to him last Friday, but it’s very difficult to get him to do what you want-and as I said to you, I think he believes that he’s helping me in some way, even though he isn’t.”** …_

_In the evening, I had a call from James McGrory (Nick Clegg’s director of communications) saying that that prize idiot Dom Cummings has yet again contacted the media. He has sent an email to Newsnight: **In government I certainly did stop a great deal of Clegg’s interference in school policy. He would routinely call demanding £100 million for an unknown gimmick…We told him to get stuffed. More importantly, we stopped him corrupting the free school process and setting exam grades by improper interference, which particularly infuriates people.**_

_Complete and utter balls. The man is a maniac….Michael said that he understood that and he was happy for us to discuss these matters behind the scenes. But he kept on emphasising that he couldn’t control Dom Cummings. He said, **“Dom will be Dom. You know what he’s like. I have spoken to Dom and I spoke to him last Friday, but it’s very difficult to get him to do what you want-and as I said to you, I think he believes that he’s helping me in some way, even though he isn’t.”** We agreed that we would do a joint op-ed in one of the newspapers. Michael also agreed that the DfE press office would be firmer in the future on lines rebutting Dom’s attacks. So it’s going to be back to public unity, but I suspect that the private disagreements are going to continue, stoked by Dom….An overnight email from James McGrory is entitled **“Yet more Cummings”.** It suggests our line on Dom’s attacks should be: **“We’re not even going to dignify these absurd statements with a response. Dom Cummings is an ex-government adviser and these fantastical musings show why it should stay that way.”** ….-“Thursday 9th May 2013-Tuesday 11th March 2014-Wednesday 7th May 2014-Thursday 8th May 2014-Friday 9th May 2014-Monday 12th May 2014-Tuesday 13th May 2014,” The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dave's BBC film: https://bbc.in/3sxOhu8  
> https://bbc.in/3aYrCBh  
> https://bit.ly/2P7REcO  
> Samantha's interview:https://bit.ly/3pYqodM  
> Ed walking the kids home:https://bit.ly/3kt9LFH  
> https://bit.ly/2O6BPTa  
> https://bit.ly/2Mx8qkQ  
> https://bit.ly/2NHeEyY  
> After his divorce, George dated Thea for a while and it was considered an "open secret" he'd been involved with her (and, rumoured, others) while he was married (I stress, rumoured). It (and others) had been frequently hinted at and provoked widespread derision:https://bit.ly/37OQERC  
> https://bit.ly/388L5h5  
> https://bit.ly/2YTuhWX  
> https://bit.ly/3eW1J4y  
> https://bit.ly/3ipxKnR  
> https://bit.ly/2BnVRmr  
> Thea was described as a bully by others in Downing Street:https://bit.ly/3pVQQVb  
> She previously dated Ameet:https://bit.ly/3dPIoVh  
> "Trout Lips" was her (not always fond) nickname:https://bit.ly/3aYfQXz  
> A clip of George "playing" with Thea's head, calling her over for help, then dismissing her:https://bit.ly/2C0EE2l  
> Thea and Craig were rumoured to have had an affair before his marriage broke up:https://bit.ly/3eZFdrG  
> https://bit.ly/3gpFKTV  
> Thea changing George's smile:https://bit.ly/3uvpGIe  
> Some other rumoured references re George:  
> https://bit.ly/3r5zA1m  
> https://bit.ly/3ktj34G  
> https://bit.ly/3dMMrSd  
> https://bit.ly/31Lat9U  
> https://bit.ly/3ijoOk1  
> https://bit.ly/2NR6Ffe  
> https://bit.ly/38rcObt  
> George and Poppy: https://bit.ly/2C0jyku  
> https://bit.ly/2NR20tL  
> https://bit.ly/3irTjnG  
> https://bit.ly/2BYrpPx  
> George and Poppy at Wimbledon in 2017:https://bit.ly/2AogPko  
> https://bit.ly/2NNYD6L  
> https://bit.ly/3ggqQPO  
> https://bit.ly/38khNuH  
> Kate is rumoured to be George's ex-gf:https://bit.ly/2ZU1Esp  
> Seth is one of George's former aides:https://bit.ly/3dWrrsl  
> https://bit.ly/3bHpA7Z  
> George and Tamara:https://bit.ly/2My41hA  
> https://bbc.in/3b06x9P  
> David and Nick's first press conference:https://bit.ly/3swCfkW  
> https://bit.ly/2NBllCZ  
> Kate's reference to Farage:https://bbc.in/3uJOBIr  
> Rupert resigned as George's chief of staff in 2015:https://bbc.in/3aXGGPF  
> MK Jess, as Dave's team nicknamed her:https://bit.ly/2O5Fr7U  
> https://bit.ly/2ZSQtjw  
> Nick's opinions on the Tories:https://bit.ly/3dS33rt  
> https://bit.ly/3suC49E  
> Samantha's birthday rave at Chequers:https://bit.ly/3dYJQo2  
> Samantha's designing:https://bit.ly/3uzAcOF  
> https://bit.ly/3ktLWh3  
> David and Nick building Flo's cabinet:https://bit.ly/3kszkXy  
> The Red interview Nancy mentions:https://bit.ly/3uMyZUu  
> The reference to Justine and QCs:https://bit.ly/3aYyEWU  
> Justine's visits and interview:https://bit.ly/3bGDyH7  
> https://bit.ly/2MueudL  
> https://bit.ly/3qUez9D  
> https://bit.ly/3r4rhmg  
> The 4 million conversations reference:https://bit.ly/37RLlk2  
> Sam's first interviews in 2010:https://bit.ly/2MAufjy  
> https://bit.ly/3dQn4Pb  
> https://bit.ly/2ZW7tWk  
> Ed V's claim Sam voted Labour:https://bit.ly/2MtBhq6  
> Sam and Venetia's friendship:https://bit.ly/3pZcfgb  
> https://bit.ly/2MvdkPl  
> https://bit.ly/3aWoHJi  
> Sam voting Green:https://bit.ly/3uF1vHE  
> The Ibiza holiday mentioned:https://bit.ly/2PjdZnZ  
> https://bit.ly/3dRiCzW  
> https://bit.ly/2NN8qO5  
> Dave taking the kids swimming:https://bit.ly/301m4zz  
> https://bit.ly/3aWgZim  
> https://bit.ly/3kqmdGq  
> The William Ellis reference:https://bit.ly/3bN8Pbc  
> Tony's penchant for Tuscany:https://bit.ly/3r67ovi  
> Mars dying , George's comment and Nancy and Liberty helping with poems:https://bit.ly/3uENmKc  
> https://tinyurl.com/8vhmsj98  
> Bea being dyslexic:https://bit.ly/3bFSxkI  
> Catherine and her children including Clemmie:https://bit.ly/3bIjyE2  
> Florence's "What are you doing in my house comment?":https://bit.ly/3dYKuSu  
> Florence with her koala:https://bit.ly/3q3CwKd  
> https://bit.ly/3rc70eo  
> George building dens:https://bit.ly/2ZXUvr7  
> Murdoch's switching of The Sun's support from Labour to the Tories:https://tinyurl.com/jpxywjb4  
> Murdoch disliking David:https://bit.ly/3ksstgC  
> The 2010 student protests:https://bit.ly/3q3DUwp  
> https://bit.ly/3uvrnW6  
> https://bit.ly/3bNbnpS  
> https://bit.ly/3dQt3DV  
> https://tinyurl.com/yzfmjnd  
> https://tinyurl.com/2n6ckfct  
> Samantha in Zara:https://tinyurl.com/24jk7f5u  
> Flo at Downing Street:https://tinyurl.com/945fn2yr  
> Danny being predicted to lose his seat:https://tinyurl.com/5d74ja5h  
> Craig's children and split:https://tinyurl.com/358839wr  
> https://tinyurl.com/ct53dxmk  
> https://tinyurl.com/u4xztkwr  
> Geordie's kids:https://tinyurl.com/yj96t2xv


End file.
